


Second Generation

by lowflyingfruit



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, DCU (Comics), Nightwing (Comics)
Genre: AU, Canon-Typical Violence, Depression, Gen, Kid Fic, Past Relationship(s), a few minor crushes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-20
Updated: 2017-06-14
Packaged: 2018-08-23 14:54:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 32
Words: 108,923
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8332036
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lowflyingfruit/pseuds/lowflyingfruit
Summary: Nine months after the 'Blockbuster Incident', a call from Lockhaven Penitentiary regarding Catalina Flores brings all Dick Grayson's plans for his future in Bludhaven crashing down. Thrust suddenly into parenthood and hiding what happened to make him a parent in the first place, Dick must decide, adjust, and accept - and no matter what, the family has to pull together to help him.Unfortunately, the Red Hood, a newcomer to the Gotham crime scene with a grudge, has his own ideas about Bat-family togetherness. Giving them time and space to work things out peacefully isn't one of them.





	1. Unplanned

**Author's Note:**

> CONTINUITY AND TIMELINES: I've smushed them together outrageously, so abandon logical attempts at reconciling canon here. It's heavily preboot inspired but I imagine it set chronologically before the reboot, with the associated age-downs.
> 
> REITERATING WARNINGS: This fic deals with rape. It includes a depressed and traumatised victim of rape trying to rationalise away the trauma and blaming himself, and several other people a) unintentionally blaming him too and/or b) generally assuming that female-on-male sexual violence is not an issue of concern.

He took the call even though he didn’t recognise the number showing on his cell’s display. “Hello, Dick Grayson speaking,” he said.

“Richard Grayson?” an unfamiliar female voice said. “I’m Dr Amanda Cunningham of Lockhaven Penitentiary. Is this a good time to speak?”

Immediately, fear lanced down Dick’s spine. Why would Lockhaven be calling _Dick Grayson_? “I don’t often get calls from prisons,” he said, trying to keep his tone light. “But I can talk here, yeah.”

“It’s a matter of some sensitivity,” Cunningham said.

“I’m alone,” Dick said. Safe in his new apartment. He brought up a list of Lockhaven staff on the computer he used for vigilante research, searching the list for an Amanda Cunningham. She was one of two psychologists employed by the institution. Legit. This couldn’t be good. “What’s this about?”

“Do you know a Ms Catalina Flores?”

Dick nearly dropped the phone. Only years of training stopped him fumbling the catch. _No, no, no…_ “The name sounds kind of familiar,” he said. His voice was mostly smooth and unconcerned. Mostly.

“Mr Grayson, Ms Flores is pregnant. She’s named you as the father.”

At that, he did drop the phone. Pregnant. Oh god. Dick counted back. Tarantula had been in jail - since April, thanks to some fast-tracked proceedings he’d only learned about when he got back from his undercover work. The rooftop had been in the middle of March, a little more than a week before his eighteenth birthday.

She ruined that and now she was going to ruin Christmas for him too - he squashed the irrational, selfish thought. This was serious. This was _deadly_ serious.

He picked up the phone. “Sorry,” he said. “Still here. Just a bit of a shock, is all.”

“I’m not surprised, Mr Grayson,” Dr Cunningham said.

His cover, he had to think of his cover. Tarantula knew his other identity, yet she had named Richard Grayson rather than Nightwing. If he kept thinking of his cover, he wouldn’t be thinking of the other thing. Nine months he’d tried so hard not to think of the other thing. “Seems fair, since I did sleep with her,” Dick said, channeling spoiled, carefree Richard not-technically-Wayne as best he could. _Slept with her. That’s one way of putting it._ “Dr Cunningham, could I ask…why’s Catalina in jail? I haven’t exactly, ah, kept up with her.”

He could feel his heart beating harder at just calling her _Catalina_ , bile rising in his throat at implying that it hadn’t been anything to him, just a fling. He concentrated on keeping his breathing steady. Cunningham would be able to hear that over the phone.

Dick heard a rush of static that could only be a heavy sigh. “Mr Grayson, I’m sorry to say, but Ms Flores is in jail for murder.”

“Murder?” Dick said, not having to hide how sick he felt at Cunningham’s words. He remembered. The shot, the blood. How he’d stepped aside. But it was _Nightwing_ who had done that. Not Dick Grayson. It felt like cowardice. He’d wanted to turn himself in, but before he could, Bruce had come to him with an urgent mission. And now he couldn’t face it. He just didn’t think about it. Any of it.

“Yes. Ms Flores is serving a life sentence without parole.” Cunningham hesitated. “Mr Grayson, I looked you up. I know that nine months ago you were seventeen and Ms Flores was twenty-two.” Statutory rape. That was what she was concerned with.

“I don’t want to see her,” Dick said immediately. “But charges aren’t needed either.” Not the sort she thought. He’d spent his eighteenth birthday in a shocked haze in some motel, wondering if he could sink any lower. The answer to that had turned out to be yes. “If I’m -“ his voice broke “- if I’m the father, I don’t want the kid to have anything to do with her. Can that be arranged?” Surely it could. He was a legal adult. He could look after his own child.

He knew what a paternity test would show. _Catalina_ had been obsessed with him. She'd thought they were in love, or she'd said that they were in love. There would have been nobody else.

“You’ll have to take that up with a lawyer,” Cunningham said. “Now, Mr Grayson, this is urgent. Ms Flores is in labour at the moment.”

“In labour?” Dick asked, voice shaking now. If that first bombshell had been a lot, this was _way_ too much. “Why - why didn’t anyone call before?”

“Ms Flores refused to discuss the paternity of her children until today. I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to discuss anything she might have told me about her reasoning.”

“No, I get it, you’re a psychologist,” Dick said. What if Tarantula had told Cunningham about Nightwing? About what happened on the rooftop? “Doctor-patient. It’s just - even after you said, I thought I’d have more time.”

“I understand,” Cunningham said. “If you’re unable to take this on, Bludhaven Social Services -“

“No!”

Oh. Too vehement. Too fearful. Cunningham didn’t need to know how Dick felt about the foster system. “No,” Dick said again, forcing his voice back to calm. “If I’m the father, it’s my responsibility. There’s no need for CPS.”

“Will you be asking for a paternity test?”

“The dates match,” he admitted, “But yes. It would be nice to be sure.” The words almost made him throw up. It was only prudent to get the test done. He knew, he _knew_ \- but just in case -

“It will be days, maybe even weeks, before results come in,” Cunningham warned him. “We can only take samples after the babies are born, and with the Christmas break coming up, things are slow.” She gave him the address of a pathologist Bludhaven Social Services approved of. "Stay by your phone, Mr Grayson. I'll call again when you're needed. The doctor said it will probably be later tonight, allowing time for some routine care."

How he managed to get on his bike and drive down to the pathologist, Dick didn’t know. Pregnant. Tarantula was pregnant and giving birth. To _his_ child. This could not be happening. He did not know how this could possibly be happening. He never - he couldn’t - the baby was most important here. More important than its mother, definitely more important than its idiot father.

Right, Grayson. Focus. The baby.

He hadn’t thought to ask Dr Cunningham if the baby was a boy or a girl, he realised, once he’d had his blood drawn for comparison and was waiting, dazed and confused, for the results. It would take a while, he knew, even though they were rushing the tests. Because nobody wanted a _baby_ in a _maximum security prison._

A name, he’d need a name. And stuff. What sort of stuff did babies need, anyway? Clothing. Food - formula? He’d need to get a crib. Diapers. Baby powder. Blankets. Toys. A bag so he could carry around all that stuff. He would probably have to get a car, he couldn’t take a baby on his bike.

He - he was going to have to use his trust fund, what was left of it after he’d donated so much to help reconstructing Bludhaven, what he’d given to the families of the people who’d died when Blockbuster blew up his apartment block. He didn’t have full access to it yet, he was still too young. That meant Bruce would find out. _Bruce_ was going to find out how much of a fool he’d been, what he’d let - he couldn’t do this, he couldn’t _do_ this.

“Go home, sir,” the nurse on duty told him, when he sat down hard in the waiting room after having his blood drawn. There had been no distaste in her eyes, just weariness at yet another teenager coming in for a paternity test. 

He went home and waited and fretted. At least he owned the apartment. Or rather, Bruce did, but he’d put Dick’s name on everything. He’d been feeling guilty about what happened between Blockbuster and Chemo, as if most of it hadn’t been Dick’s fault. Trying not to think about anything, especially not anything that had happened between Blockbuster and Chemo, Dick cleared a space in his room for a crib. Then he cleaned out the fridge. Then, with almost the last of the money in his spending account, ordered as much baby stuff as he could think of delivered to the apartment. Food and diapers, he had to have food and diapers. He went out to get those in person, feeling like he was trapped in some nightmare.

It seemed like no time at all before his cell phone rang again and Dr Cunningham was speaking. “Mr Grayson. The doctors have cleared you to pick up your children."

“I forgot to ask earlier, is it a boy or a girl?” Dick asked. He knew he sounded exhausted. He was. He couldn’t believe this. He was _eighteen_. In college now, nowhere fancy, aiming to become a police officer once he was old enough for the Academy. That wasn’t going to happen if he was trying to look after a baby instead. He still wanted to be Nightwing, even if - with Slade - 

Everything was going to change now. He’d just got back from a six-month mission, he was supposed to be going back to normal!

It wasn’t fair -

No. No, this was more or less what he should have expected. He was the one who couldn’t stop Tarantula. Not in the stairwell and not on the rooftop. He had to take responsibility. The baby was more important.

“Ms Flores delivered healthy twin girls four hours ago.”

“Twins?” he asked stupidly. That was twice as many babies. He hadn’t even been prepared for _one_ baby. Now he had two. Yet if he thought back, he thought he remembered Cunningham using the plural at some point. Just then. God, he was out of it. What on earth made him think he could possibly do this?

Aside from the fact that he  _had_ to.

“Yes. Twins. I’d encourage you to pick them up directly. There’s a social worker there already to help with the legalities, since we’re assuming the girls will be taking your surname.”

“Yes,” Dick said. “My surname. Please. Where do I need to go?”

Lockhaven itself, as it turned out, rather than a Social Services office. Dick took a taxi. Money he couldn’t really afford any more, not if he wanted to live without sponging off Bruce -

No, he didn’t want to think about his inevitable talk with Bruce. Not at the moment. He wanted to think about names for his two daughters who didn’t deserve parents like him and Tarantula. If he thought he could trust the system he’d give them up in a heartbeat, give them to a family with responsible adults in it, with a mother and a father who hadn’t killed anyone.

A guard escorted him to a waiting room when he arrived, unfazed by the scenario that had all but shut Dick’s brain down completely. Somewhere, the part of Dick’s mind that ran his normal life and had been screaming all day about neglecting his college work and the heroin smugglers on the north side, he wondered how often this sort of thing happened.

Dick had worried about this step, but Tarantula wasn’t there. As promised. She was probably still in the prison infimary recovering. Instead, he was met by a nurse and a social worker, and a pair of identical twins in identical bassinets.

They were tiny. They were red and smushed-looking and so, so small. 

He couldn’t tell if they looked like him yet. He didn’t know what he’d do, how he’d feel if - god, no, not going there. He couldn’t blame them for what their mother did. He _wouldn’t_. He was going to take them away from here and figure something out and raise them like a good dad should. He was going to _love them_ , dammit. He had to love them.

His daughters. Dick felt woozy.

“Mr Grayson?” the social worker said, very gently. “Would you like to hold them?”

Dick braced himself and nodded. The social worker guided him into a hard plastic chair and settled one baby in his arms. She took the other. “We’ll swap in a few minutes,” she said. “Are you all right?”

“Not really,” Dick said. “It’s all so sudden.”

And. The thing he couldn’t tell the social worker. The thing that made him want to cry just looking at the tiny girl in his arms. New fathers cried, right? That was normal.

“I understand you’re eighteen, Mr Grayson?”

“Yes,” he said.

“You intend to look after them yourself?”

“I - I have a trust fund. Family.” Family he never wanted to find out about the rooftop, and who now almost certainly would, one way or another. “They’ll help me out.” They would. Not that he deserved it. But they, like him, would see that the two babies were innocent in all this. “Can I hold the other one now? Do they have names?” Had Tarantula chosen any, he couldn’t quite ask.

“No, no names,” the social worker said. He didn’t know hers. “Ms Flores left that to you.”

“Okay,” Dick said, second daughter in his arms now. “Okay. This is Bridget, then. The other one is Amy.” He couldn’t name his daughters for the dead, and he didn’t want to name them for family, but there were two good women in Bludhaven who hopefully wouldn’t mind sharing their names with a daughter of his. Not that Amy Rohrbach knew Dick Grayson. It was Nightwing that she knew.

“Amy’s older by half an hour,” the social worker said.

They sat there for a few minutes, Dick clutching each daughter by turn, trying to get used to how they felt in his arms. _These are my daughters and I have to love them_ , he told himself again. The social worker, Mrs Lau, settled Amy in his arms as well as Bridget while she filled out paperwork. Still he couldn’t make himself smile.

His daughters. Get used to the word, Grayson. Papa Grayson.

Mrs Lau said, “Mr Grayson. Are you _sure_ you can look after Amy and Bridget yourself?”

Dick kept his eyes on the babies. “I went into the system after my parents died,” he said. “They put me in juvie because my dad was Rom and we lived in a circus. When someone did want to adopt me, CPS did everything they could to stop it. I don’t trust the system. I’m keeping them. If Social Services don’t like it they can take it to court.”

With what money, he didn’t know. Like Bruce would want to pay thousands of dollars, tens of thousands, for his fuck-up teenage ex-ward to keep his illegitimate daughters by a murderer. All the same, he meant it.

“Okay then. If you’ll put your girls back in their bassinets for a second, there’s just a bit more paperwork to deal with, and then you should go.” _Prison isn’t the best environment for a newborn_ , Dick heard. He agreed, too. Yet if there was any justice, he’d be in here with Tarantula, paying for what happened in the stairwell.

Bridget opened her eyes. Blue eyes. Her fussing woke up Amy and before Dick knew it he had two arms full of crying infant. Oddly, it brought everything into focus for him. It was a _crisis_. Dick could deal with crises, most of the time.

Don’t think about the stairwell. The girls had nothing to do with the stairwell.

He rocked them back and forth, humming a tune that was half a lullaby he could barely remember from when he’d been a little boy at the circus and half a rock song that had been playing on the radio when the taxi pulled up. After a few minutes they quieted, to the surprise of the social worker, standing there waiting patiently with papers and a pen. For the first time since he’d got the call, he made himself smile.

It didn’t last long. He piled awkwardly back into the taxi with his new family, baby girls whining softly at the cold air between the penitentiary door and the taxi itself. “Quiet,” he whispered to them, between more humming. He didn’t have a car seat. He just had to hold onto the girls. “Quiet, pretty girls.”

They weren’t actually pretty. They were red and squishy. But they _would_ be pretty.

Would be. They were going to be part of his life now. He would see them learn to walk and learn to somersault and go to school and grow up and it was too much.

Somewhere between the taxi and his front door, he lost time again. One minute he was in the taxi, the next fumbling for his keys. Then he was inside, and alone with the babies. Alone. With the babies. His to look after. Two tiny people who _needed_ him. He put them down, and the jolt set one of them to crying. Amy. Then Bridget joined in.

Alone in his apartment with two tiny helpless girls he’d never thought of, never asked for, never -

If his daughters didn’t need him, he thought he might start crying too.

 

—

 

It took way too long for him to quiet the babies. His neighbours couldn’t be pleased with him right about now. He fed them, since he’d at least thought far enough ahead to get them formula. He changed their diapers - a quick google told him that yes, the stuff they were expelling was supposed to be that colour. He wanted to change their clothes and clean them, but he had nothing to change them into.

Good job with the parenting, Grayson. He’d had hours to get ready for this. _Hours_.

He was halfway through undressing Bridget when he realised he couldn’t tell them apart. Panicking, he grabbed a marker, wrote their names on their onesies, and made a note of which baby was where. Left hand baby Amy, right hand baby Bridget. No excuses for forgetting. No excuses. None.

A siren sounded not far outside his window. Dick jerked. At this time of night he’d normally be out there on the rooftops. He loved winter in Bludhaven. The city was almost attractive under a layer of snow. He wanted to be out there. He wanted to be anywhere but where he was.

Yet he couldn’t quite seem to let go of the babies. He did manage to wrap them up while he washed their clothes. They fussed and grizzled constantly, no matter how close he held them. “You want your mom?” he asked them. “I’m sorry. I should have done better by her, I know.”

Maybe, if he hadn’t - but no. Too late now. He’d made such a mess of things.

Time slipped by.

He should call Bruce. Bruce was going to find out anyway. He should just pick up the phone and call. It was the sensible thing to do. It might even be the right thing to do. Dick Grayson owed Bruce Wayne the courtesy. Nightwing needed to inform Batman of the complication. If he called as Nightwing, he just might be able to get through the call.

Dick didn’t call.

He ran through people in his mind. Uncle Clark. Wally. Roy. Donna. As soon as he thought the names, the reasons not to sprang up. Disappointed one, failed another, too much going on with yet another. Tim, no. Tim was smart, smart like Bruce was smart, but he was just a kid, too. Kori. Kori wouldn’t judge, but she was off planet. Well away from him. 

Babs. _Unthinkable._

The babies fell asleep, but even then Dick couldn’t make himself do much more than pace around his apartment, holding first one and then the other. He - they - had made it through one night. He should just pick up the damn phone and _call_. He’d made it one night, but there were who knew how many others coming up and he already felt like he was going mad.

His order of baby supplies came through, the first delivery of the day, and the first thing that felt it had gone sort of right in twenty-four hours. The man who unloaded the crates in the apartment building’s loading bay looked at him askance. Dick knew he must look awful.

By the time he got back upstairs with the stuff, the babies were crying again. Leave them alone for ten minutes and that was what happened. Nothing to do but try and comfort them again.

He was very, very bad at this. Already he knew he needed help. Help that he also knew he didn’t deserve. _Get over it, Grayson_ , he told himself. _Pick up the phone and call_. But no matter how many times he told himself that, he left his cell where it was.


	2. Initial Response

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dick has a whole lot of problems. Tim might have one half of a solution to one of them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Same warnings as last time, everyone. Also, one of the minor crushes in this fic is one-sided Tim -> Dick. If you don't like the pairing, don't stress, it's a minor crush in both the sense that it's not real serious and in that it's not a major element of the story.

It was just two days until Christmas, and Tim was worried about Dick. Well, he’d been worried about Dick all year, that was not exactly a new feeling. Something had happened at the beginning of the year, not long after Tim finally convinced Bruce to let him be Robin. Then Dick had vanished for six months, only resurfacing when Bludhaven was attacked and almost destroyed in October.

Bruce still wouldn’t tell him everything about what had happened. He didn’t even have computer files on it. Dick wasn’t saying anything either.

What Dick _had_ said a lot about was returning to Gotham for Christmas. He was a day late now, he hadn’t called or emailed, and Nightwing had not been spotted in Bludhaven for a few days.

Tim knew Bruce wanted desperately to go check on Dick, but just as desperately didn’t want to believe that Dick’s presence and/or wellbeing made a difference to his emotional state, and was terrified of what Dick might say to him besides if he visited in person. “I have those murders to worry about,” Bruce said. The files were up on the Batcomputer’s screen, but so was a standing order to alert him of any Nightwing appearances (right down to #nightwingsass on Twitter, just in case). He was very nearly at the point of monitoring Richard Grayson, something that always irritated Dick.

Tim didn’t want them to fight again, not when they were just starting to get along better. They’d fought too much since Jason died, and they weren’t the only ones who suffered for it.

So, sneaking out of his house and driving over to Bludhaven became Tim’s (unofficial) job for the evening. It had to be in costume, otherwise he couldn’t exactly drive himself. Being thirteen was a drag. Alfred had left Robin’s motorcycle fully gassed up, a wordless statement of where the butler fell on the issue of checking up on Dick. 

Speeding down the highway at speeds only Batman and Robin were allowed, Tim could only think that it was good to have an ally in this mission.

He knew where Dick lived, at least. Top floor apartment, all the better for nighttime access. He parked his bike in one of the usual spots, activated its defenses to deter Bludhaven thieves, and grappled up to Dick’s balcony. The outer door to the apartment was, as expected, reinforced, locked and alarmed. More even than the outer door to the usual Bludhaven apartment.

But Tim could hear music coming from inside. Faint and indistinct, a voice too. Dick’s, he thought. Was he sick? He rapped on the window, and the voice instantly stopped. No reply.

He rapped again. “Dick, it’s me,” he called softly, hoping the older boy would hear him.

After another pause, Dick appeared at the door. He _could_ be sick. He hadn’t shaved, and his eyes were shadowed. “Timmy? What are you doing here - hang on, I’ll let you in, it’s cold out.”

Once he’d opened up, Tim stepped through into the apartment, and Dick shut the door behind him, re-locking everything. “You’ve cleaned up,” Tim said, surprised. Dick’s place wasn’t exactly _tidy_ , but the chaos that usually existed inside it had been tamed somewhat.

“Ah, yeah.” Dick almost looked embarrassed. “So what brings you here, Timmy? Not that I’m not happy to see you, it’s just…” He smiled, but there was something _absent_ in it.

“Christmas,” Tim said, mind working away at the problem. It was either a trivial problem or really, _really_ bad if Dick was trying to put on a smile and not quite succeeding. Given that he hadn’t been out as Nightwing…Tim leaned to the _deadly serious_ theory. “Dick, you said you’d be in Gotham yesterday. It’s not like you to miss Christmas stuff, Bruce is almost out of his mind with worry. Cass is still in Hong Kong, there’s nobody to distract him.”

Dick frowned, and it looked like he was about to say something, but then a baby started to cry. Before Tim could do more than open his mouth to start on the sentence _is that a baby?_ Dick bolted towards the sound.

“Shh, shh, papa’s here,” Tim heard Dick say somewhere ahead of him.

Papa? Tim followed Dick into his kitchen, very confused.

There were two very small babies in there. One in Dick’s arms, the other in a baby-carrying device of some kind. Tim didn’t know much about babies or the care thereof. It looked like Tim had interrupted Dick before feeding them, by the bottle standing out on the bench. “Whose are these?” Tim asked.

Dick looked at Tim, blue eyes wider and more vulnerable than Tim had ever seen before. “Mine,” he said, clutching the crying baby to his chest as if he were afraid Tim would run off with it. Him. Her. Whichever.

“Oh,” Tim said.

Then, because it seemed like he should say something else, he said, “They’re nice?”

Dick tried to smile. It looked horrible. “This is Amy,” he said, indicating the baby he was holding, “And that’s Bridget, you can hold her if you like while I feed Amy. Girls, this is Uncle Timmy.”

Dick always did insist that they were brothers. Tim still wasn’t sure how he felt about that (aside from cursing the crush he’d had on Dick since he was old enough to know what a crush was), but he knew consistency was often a virtue. If Tim was Dick’s brother, Tim was an uncle to Dick’s daughters. He could manage that, Tim thought. Probably.

He still didn’t immediately take up the offer to pick up Bridget. If she was anything like the size of the baby in Dick’s arms, Amy, Tim was afraid he’d break her. 

Instead, he looked down at the girl, lowering a finger to gently place in her hand, prompting her to grab it by reflex. She was chubby, her baby grip soft and dry, and even now he could sort of see her resemblance to Dick in her blue eyes (though those might darken as she got older) and ink-black hair. A glance back at the other baby told him they were a matched set. Twins. Identical twins, though Dick had helpfully written BRIDGET on this baby’s pale pink onesie in permanent marker.

“How old are they?” Tim asked.

“Two days,” Dick said. “I got the call-“

He broke off, and didn’t volunteer anything else. Tim tried to fill the gap. “I guess that explains why you weren’t around yesterday,” he commented. “Are you sure I can pick her up?”

Dick looked slightly more confident than Tim felt as he raised a bottle to his baby’s mouth. Amy latched onto the bottle and started sucking, which stopped her crying. “Sure.”

Tim decided to risk it. Bridget weighed next to nothing, and under the talc, smelled…odd. Not bad, just odd. Once she was settled, Tim asked, “What about their mother?”

Dick immediately went white. The hand holding the bottle for Amy trembled slightly, though the arm holding Amy herself stayed steady. “Not involved with me,” he said. “Or with them, if I can help it. This was - it was - an accident.” He nodded. “An accident. I don’t want them any less because of it.”

More information than Tim had asked for. Not to mention he’d never heard Dick babble quite like that before, nor go quite so pale. He stored it away. “Have you told anyone else?” he asked.

“No, nobody else yet. You’re the first.” Dick’s smile, pasted on over his too-pale face, was past unnerving and into ghastly. Even if he’d been managing to feed and clean his daughters (weird thought), he obviously wasn’t looking after himself. The self-deprecating laugh he forced out was equally unnatural. “I was thinking I might have to tell Bruce over the phone, since I couldn’t work out how to bring the girls over for Christmas. Can’t put them on the back of my bike, can I?”

Tim didn’t look at Bridget, who had woken up and was wriggling a little, no doubt after the same thing as her sister was. “Alfred,” Tim said. “Call Alfred, get him to give you a lift. Give you  _all_ a lift.”

Amy finished the bottle and Dick put her over his shoulder to burp her. He didn’t seem to want to look at Tim. “That’s sensible,” he said.

“But you’d have to tell Bruce as soon as we pulled into the Manor?”

“Yeah.”

Tim didn’t have a solution for that. Bruce had been busy and short-tempered recently, keeping secrets from Tim, Cass, and Dick. Tim wasn’t even sure if he’d confided in Alfred. The Red Hood cases had him on edge. “He’s going to know by morning anyway,” Tim said. “He’s going to check up on you and I doubt he’ll miss the sudden existence of Amy and Bridget Grayson when he inevitably runs the search for you.”

Dick looked like he might be about to cry, but he finished dealing with Amy and started heating formula for Bridget. “You’re right, Tim. Hear that, girls? Your uncle’s so clever. I guess you’ll be meeting Great-grandpa Alfred and Grandpa Bruce a bit earlier than I thought.”

Even though Dick was praising him to a pair of girls who didn’t have a week of life between them, Tim blushed. Stupid crush. Stupid hormones. He couldn’t wait until he grew out of this stage.

“I’ll feed Bridget and then call, how does that sound?”

“They’re your babies,” Tim said. It sounded _weird_. Dick wasn’t out of his teens yet. He must have been barely legal when he’d slept with the mother of his children, if that. An uglier thought occurred to him: Barbara had broken up with Dick early in the year, not long before he’d vanished, and these were clearly not Barbara’s children. Perhaps Dick had cheated on her? The timeline fit.

Not his business. If he had a role in this…whatever, it was to help Dick look after his children. Uncle Tim. He didn’t have any uncles. He’d never been around any babies. This was as new to him as it was to Dick. Less intimidating. Still new.

He decided he had better hold Amy while Dick fed Bridget. He’d done the other way around. It was only fair. Amy was just as light and soft as her sister, warm and sleepy after her meal. It was quite enjoyable to hold her, actually, very relaxing. Dick, with the weight of responsibility for these tiny vulnerable humans, was clearly not feeling so relaxed.

Uncle’s privilege, he thought, as Dick put Bridget down by him as well, and went to find his phone.

 

—

 

That hadn’t gone as badly as he thought it might. Tim had taken it well. But then, Tim took just about everything well. He was the clever one, the sensible one. He could only hope Cass would be so accepting.

Dick hoped Tim bought the lie about this being an accident just a little while longer. He hoped he wasn’t in the room when Tim found out. It was selfish, but he didn’t want to see Tim’s face when he learned that Dick had helped Tarantula kill Blockbuster and then gone up to the roof and - 

\- he must have wanted it. It was the only thing that made sense. It wasn’t _okay_ , what he’d done with her, every time he thought of it he was so ashamed and disgusted with himself it hurt, but if he’d wanted it, it was okay to want the babies.

And he did want the babies. His babies, he reminded himself. Maybe he hadn’t, strictly speaking, wanted them yesterday, but that was yesterday. Today he wanted them and he didn’t care that each time he looked at them it was the most terrifying thing in the world.

He wanted them. They needed him, even if they had the terrible luck of having him for a father. It worked out well enough. Even if his poor girls had been shortchanged in the parents department. Still - and he looked back at Tim with Amy and Bridget as he did - it wasn’t only him. His girls couldn’t do so badly with Uncle Tim and Auntie Cass and Alfred and Grandpa Bruce looking out for them. Between the four of them they could probably stop him being  _too_ much of a failure as a parent.

Alfred picked up the phone on the third ring. “Master Richard?”

“Hi, Alfred,” Dick said. He had to do this. With Tim there, he could pick up the phone. Tim’s plan was a good one, and any more delay would only make it worse for him in the end. “Sorry I didn’t make it over today.”

“It’s good to hear your voice,” Alfred said. “And I’m pleased that whatever caused your delay it doesn’t seem to have impaired your ability to handle a phone. I know Master Timothy went to check on you.”

“He’s here now. I called to ask a favour, actually.”

The warmth did not go out of Alfred’s voice as he said, “Within reason.”

“I kinda need a lift from Bludhaven. If you want me to stay at the Manor for Christmas, anyway. I can’t take the bike at the moment, and you know how the taxis feel about going between cities. The drivers’ turf war is _intense_.” Plus, Dick couldn't really afford the fare either, not that he could tell Alfred that.

“Easily done, Master Richard. I take it I should set out immediately to retrieve you.”

“You’ll miss all the traffic that way.”

“Then I will see you and Master Timothy in little more than an hour. With luck, we’ll be back just as Master Bruce concludes his usual nightly work. He will be glad to see you as well.”

A lump rose in Dick’s throat. If only he could believe that. Bruce knew just about everything. Every single shameful thing Dick had done in the past nine months, in the name of his undercover mission (and why Bruce had trusted him after he’d failed keeping order in Bludhaven, Dick had no idea) or of his own volition, except two. Everything except the full truths of the stairwell and the rooftop. Dick had managed to hide those two things.

Now he couldn’t. It was only a matter of time.

“See you soon, Alfie. Thanks again,” he said, and hung up.

From the kitchen, where he was sitting and smiling so unconcerned with Dick’s daughters, Tim asked, “You okay?”

“Fine, Timmy,” Dick said. “Just gotta pack some things. You wouldn’t _believe_ how much stuff they need. Or the colour of the stuff they get rid of.”

He found a bag and started putting in diapers, formula, wipes, changing mat - all the things he hadn’t expected he’d have to think about by himself or for several years more yet, if then, if ever. He double checked he had everything, then remembered. Hats. He did not have hats for his girls yet, and they’d lose so much heat through the tops of their heads.

“Just wrap them all the way up,” Tim suggested when Dick started fretting. “It doesn’t matter what they have over their heads as long as they’re covered.”

“You’re just full of good ideas, clever uncle Timmy,” Dick said.

“Don’t forget to pack for yourself,” Tim frowned. Just as well, because Dick _had_ forgotten thus far. His own spare clothes got shoved in another bag. Then the Christmas presents he’d bought weeks ago, because Christmas. He didn’t have Christmas presents for the girls yet, of course, how could he? He’d been distracted. Because of the girls.

He was not doing this right, he was going to be a terrible parent, he hurt everyone he ever loved and the girls deserved better -

The ringing of his cell brought him out of that daze, and he was glad of it. Once again he found himself hanging onto a daughter - Bridget - like just having her close to him would somehow protect her. All backwards. She needed to be protected _from_ him, her stupid fuck-up father who helped her mother kill a man. “Hi, Alfred,” Dick said.

“Master Richard. I am currently parked downstairs.”

“Actually, Alfred, could you come up? There’s something…it’s easier to explain in person.”

Tim snorted in agreement. Dick wondered if Alfred heard it. “Very well,” the butler said. “I will be there momentarily.”

It was a tortuous two minutes while Alfred took the lift. He was going to see. Once Dick had told Alfred Bruce would have to find out soon afterwards. True, Tim said Bruce would probably know by morning anyway, but still - 

Since Tim was in costume, Dick was the one who went to get the door when Alfred knocked. “Hey,” Dick said, unlatching it. “Come in.”

“Thank you, my boy,” Alfred said, then halted halfway through the door to Dick’s small living area. “My word!”

He’d seen them.

“Am I to assume that these -“

“Girls,” Tim supplied.

“- Young ladies - are yours, Master Richard?”

“Yeah,” Dick said.

“My word,” Alfred repeated. Dick had never seen him so stunned before. Maybe he had been, ten years ago, when Bruce first brought Dick himself back from juvie. After visibly searching for the appropriate words, he settled on, “Of course you could not take your motorcycle.” After a few more seconds, he asked, “Might I ask their names, Master Richard? Introductions are lacking.”

Stupid. “The one Tim’s holding is Amy,” he said. “The other one is Bridget.”

“Named for the police officer you’ve been working with at night and your former landlady?”

“Yeah.”

Alfred smiled, just slightly. “And now that I know her name, might I hold the sadly neglected Miss Bridget?”

Tears pricked at Dick’s eyes as he did as requested. The old butler, naturally, knew how to hold a baby. Bridget started crying at the movement but he rocked her and soon enough had her back asleep. “How old are they?”

“Just two days old,” he said.

“Oh, my dear boy,” Alfred said. “It was a surprise for you?”

More tears threatened, but if Dick started to cry now he wouldn’t stop for a long time. He scrubbed them away before they could form properly. “Yeah.”

“Their mother is unavailable?”

He didn’t deserve to have someone like Alfred in his life. “You could say that,” Dick said. “She’s not going to be a part of their lives.” Not ever. Not _ever_.

“Well,” Alfred said with a small smile. “As soon as I have held Miss Amy in her turn, I should like to get all three of you in the car and return to the Manor.”

The obligatory baby-swap happened. Alfred was so good with them, even as he helped get the girls into their carriers and Tim waved a temporary goodbye, heading out the window back to his bike. “Cheap and unsound, Master Richard,” Alfred said of the carriers. “We shall have to purchase new ones.”

“I can’t,” Dick said. “I can’t just - live off Bruce forever.” If Bruce was even willing to look at Dick after this.

Alfred declined to respond to that. Dick knew him well enough to tell that it was a discussion deferred, not ended. Besides, he was torn. His babies were more important than his pride. His babies were more important than anything of his. They had to be.

It was only when they were all in the car, away from Tim, that Dick dared to ask the real question. “What’s he going to think, Alf?”

Alfred sighed. “I wish that I could set your mind at ease, Master Richard, but I cannot.”

That meant he’d be disgusted. As disgusted as Dick was with himself. Bruce would find out about Tarantula and the rooftop and Blockbuster and that would be it. Dick knew Bruce didn’t love him. Hadn’t loved him for a long time. At some point Bruce had started looking at him like an obligation rather than a partner, a charity case rather than a son. He’d thought he’d earned back some respect, after he’d left Slade, that the information he’d retrieved in those awful months undercover had been worth Batman’s time and energy.

Now Dick was coming back for Christmas, a time for family, implicitly begging financial help for the daughters of a murderer and her accomplice. What right did Dick have to call Bruce _Grandpa_ to his girls?

“That’s about what I figured,” Dick said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who responded to the last chapter - I wasn't expecting so much! Thanks again for reading this one, and I'll post the next chapter in a week!
> 
>  
> 
> NEXT TIME:
> 
> Alfred looked him dead in the eyes. “Master Richard has news for you of some import. It is imperative that you do not lose your temper with him. It is all he can do to face you in your own home tonight, so I beg you, Master Bruce, be gentle.”
> 
> “What’s the matter?” Bruce asked. There was a trace of a growl in his voice, and more than a trace of fear in his heart. “Is he hurt?”


	3. Paternal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bruce says things wrong and tries to do things better. Meanwhile, Tim has his own dad to worry about.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All previous warnings apply.

There was a note on the console of the computer when Bruce came back. A note, and no Alfred. Fortunately, the note explained that.

_Sir,_

_Master Richard has requested a ride from Bludhaven directly. When I spoke to him on the phone he sounded uninjured and said that Master Timothy was with him._

Bruce looked up. Robin’s motorcycle was in its place, though making slight clinking noises as its engine cooled. Tim had come back to the Cave and then quickly returned home, no doubt before his father could notice his absence. It was only now that Jack Drake valued his son’s presence. Bruce did not understand how the man could care for his child so little. But with Tim accounted for sufficiently, he turned his attention back to the note telling him of his own son.

_Anticipating your likely instructions, I have of course gone to retrieve him. I expect to be back in Gotham shortly after your patrol concludes. If we are not back by the time you return, pursuant to your usual post-patrol needs, I have left a plate in the oven._

So they’d be back soon. Alfred - and Dick. He’d only been off the grid one full day but already Bruce had started panicking. After what happened to Dick earlier in the year, with what happened to Jason…he knew he hadn’t been the same after what happened to Jason. How could he be? And with this person calling himself the Red Hood lurking around precisely the sort of cases Batman and Robin would involve themselves in, Bruce couldn’t help but worry even more.

He did his best to calm himself. Dick would be back in Gotham, in the Manor, _where he belonged_ , for the next fortnight. Safe. He’d promised. He was twenty-four hours late with that promise.

Eighteen was far too young to be living alone in Bludhaven. But Bruce had never been good at withstanding Dick when it counted. He’d tried so hard to hang on to him, to keep him safe, and then as safe as possible, but Dick would never have any of it. Not one bit.

Bruce was proud. He could admit it to himself. He was also afraid. That, he was less good at admitting.

He went upstairs and ate mechanically, waiting for the sound of doors opening that would herald Alfred and Dick’s return to the Manor. Not long now, to be sure. How slowly was Alfred driving, anyway? It was nearly dawn. He sat and waited in the kitchen, nursing a coffee. Alfred had left a pot of that on as well.

Alfred had said he sounded uninjured. There was that, at least. But then why would he skip patrol? Dick _hated_ to skip patrol. He’d tried to go out with a broken arm before; what was stopping him now?

There. There it was. A door opening. Footsteps. Familiar voices.

He frowned. Even from this distance, where the words were indistinct, Dick sounded exhausted. Almost manic. He must have been working himself too hard again.

Alfred alone came through the final door to the kitchen. “Ah, Master Bruce,” he said. “You are uninjured, I trust?”

“Only a few bruises,” Bruce said. “Nothing serious.” He’d spent most of the evening investigating, not fighting.

“Excellent, excellent.” Alfred looked him dead in the eyes. “Master Richard has news for you of some import. It is imperative that you do not lose your temper with him. It is all he can do to face you in your own home tonight, so I beg you, Master Bruce, be gentle.”

“What’s the matter?” Bruce asked. There was a trace of a growl in his voice, and more than a trace of fear in his heart. “Is he hurt?”

“Physically, no, but as for the rest - come, Master Bruce, it is something he ought tell you himself. While his courage holds.”

Very afraid now of what he might see, Bruce followed Alfred. Not physically injured, he reminded himself.

He saw the back of Dick’s head and his shoulders first, over the top of the sofa he’d sat down on. True to Alfred’s words, he was holding himself very rigidly. Dick was, as Alfred had said, scared. More scared of facing Bruce than he ever should be.

“Dick,” Bruce greeted him.

His son whipped around in his seat as if turning to face a threat. “Um. Hey, Bruce.”

“Alfred said you had something to tell me.”

“Yeah. Yeah, I do.” More fear response, with Dick drawing a long and shuddering breath. In the soft light of this particular living room, Bruce could see the deep shadows under his bloodshot blue eyes. He stayed in the door, at a distance. He didn’t want to give Dick a reason to run.

“Bruce, I - I’m a dad now. I brought my daughters. To meet you. Over Christmas.”

The justified and confirmed relief - Dick really wasn’t hurt, wasn’t ill - was washed away by shock, which as always with him, turned into anger. “Your _what_?” Bruce growled. He stepped around the sofa to see that Dick had two baby carriers with them, each occupied with a baby. Two very small babies, a week old at the absolute most. Dick’s, apparently.

“You heard me,” Dick said. “They’re mine. Getting the paternity test and everything.”

“You’re eighteen,” Bruce said. Too young, far too young. It seemed like only yesterday Dick only came up to his waist. “You cannot _possibly -_ “

Alfred coughed pointedly behind him.

“What about their mother?” Bruce snapped instead.

“Not involved with me,” Dick said. It had the sound of something he’d already said a few times. “And she won’t be involved with them, either.”

Bruce felt like shouting, but keeping Alfred in mind, restrained himself once again. “How many times, Dick? This is exactly why I always told you to be careful with women.” He regretted the words as soon as they passed his lips. 

Dick reacted to the words like he would have to an unexpected blow, jerking away, eyes wounded. “I -“ he started, then swallowed, and tried again, “I know I fucked up. I know they don’t deserve someone like me for a dad. But I’m all they’ve got, Bruce.”

One of the babies started to cry. Dick gave Bruce one last anguished look before ducking down to the carrier with the crying girl, whispering “Shh, papa’s here, I know you’re tired, I’ll change you in just a sec.”

The other baby started crying. Dick didn’t look far off crying either. How did Bruce’s laughing little boy become this huddled, frightened young man? Dick or Nightwing, he had enough presence to fill a room, and now he looked like he wanted nothing more than to just sink into the ground. Was it the undercover work that had done it to him? The babies? Bruce himself? “What are their names?” Bruce asked.

“Amy and Bridget.”

“Those are good names,” Bruce said hoarsely. “Stay as long as you need.”

Alfred took over. “We only have the one crib, in the attic, but I will set it up in your old room directly, Master Richard. You look as if you could use some sleep yourself.”

“I’d heard that babies were tiring, and they’re sure not kidding,” Dick said. “I’m just…worried.” He started on changing the first girl to cry. His movements weren’t confident, which until now Bruce would have said was impossible. But they were unbelievably gentle.

Bruce turned on his heel and walked out, unable to process any more.

Dick was a father. His son had children of his own. That made Bruce a grandfather, at the ripe old age of thirty-seven. He headed down and back to the cave. He had research to do.

Amy and Bridget. Grayson, Bruce assumed. There would be birth certificates on file. It was a simple matter to find them. Amy and Bridget Grayson, born late in the afternoon on the 21st of December. They were now in the early hours of the 24th. Dick had been a father for just over two full days.

And the mother of record…

_Catalina Flores_.

Bruce knew that name. On paper, she was a Bludhaven vigilante almost as unlike Nightwing as it was possible to be. She had killed (at least) four people, three gang members and the chief of Bludhaven’s police, for which Dick had at last managed to have her arrested and convicted. Nightwing had worked with her a few times, before the murders. It was a ways from working with her, to having a sexual relationship with her.

He counted backwards. The Bludhaven PD had arrested Catalina Flores close to nine months ago. That meant Dick had slept with her shortly beforehand - _after_ she’d murdered Chief Redhorn, for sure, and possibly even after she’d tried to kill Barbara Gordon. More likely before, knowing Dick.

He'd covered up the attack on Barbara himself, in the process of fixing the mess Blockbuster had made of Dick's civilian life. Compared to the fire at Haly's, the shootings at Dick's bar and college, and the destruction of the apartment block, covering up one assault at one Bludhaven restaurant had been child's play. Dick and Barbara had refused to press charges or even stay in the restaurant to be interviewed by police. Nobody at the scene had got their names. It had been a simple matter of taking the footage from the restaurant, and from there, as far as the Bludhaven police department were concerned, there was no connection between the vigilante Tarantula and Dick Grayson.

It was now clear that she hadn’t been just a hired gun to eliminate Dick’s then-girlfriend, but had a more personal interest in Dick altogether, and one not limited to his daytime identity. She had to have known Dick Grayson and Nightwing were one and the same.

What the hell had Dick been thinking?!

Sleeping with a stalker was bad enough. Sleeping with a known murderer was insanity. (Bruce knew - but even then, Flores was no Talia al Ghul.) Flores had _kept the pregnancy_ , knowing that with her life-without-parole sentence she would never be a full-time mother to the children. Not a mother at all, in truth. Her daughters would only know her through the glass of a prison visitation room, if that.

Bruce read the case notes some overworked employee of Bludhaven’s social services department had hurriedly entered before their Christmas break. Flores had refused to name the father of her children until she was actually in labor, where in a small mercy she’d told the Lockhaven psychologist that she’d met Dick Grayson in a club and had a one-night stand with him. The Lockhaven psychologist had called Dick, ignorant of Tarantula’s efforts to kill Barbara Gordon because of Barbara’s relationship with Dick, linking them on the public record. Bruce’s work to hide Dick’s nighttime identity could well unravel thanks to this.

What a mess. Flores was not just a stalker, then, but a successful stalker. With that blackmail and certain parental rights (visitation, primarily) over her daughters - which, Bruce saw, she hadn’t ceded beyond allowing Dick to name their children - Nightwing would be unable to fully cut her off, ever. That would be the idea.

Not if Bruce could help it. He knew all the best family court lawyers in the country by now. _That woman_ would not rule the lives of Bruce’s son and granddaughters. 

Granddaughters. Plural. It was only ten years ago that Bruce was in the throes of denial about coming to love Dick. With the benefit of hindsight he knew why and how that had happened. But Dick’s children - how did that work, then, loving someone because they were important to someone else he loved?

It was for Dick. He’d try. He’d _succeed_.

He’d start calling lawyers once business hours had started. He could wait for that, but not for the end of the Christmas period. And after he’d talked to Dick. Who still should have known better. He headed back upstairs. He himself needed to sleep. The sun was well and truly up, now, a late bedtime even for him.

The way back to his room took him past Dick’s. He’d only rarely kept his door closed, even as a teenager. Tonight was no exception. Bruce couldn’t help but peer in as he went by, only to see Dick passed out on top of the covers, one hand dangling into the crib Alfred had set up next to the bed. 

How long had it been since Dick had slept? He’d bet it was as long as it had been since he’d shaved, and that clearly hadn’t happened for about forty-eight hours.

Bruce took a step inside, intending only to cover Dick with a blanket, but as soon as he got within a few feet of the bed, Dick came awake abruptly, holding his arms ready to fight, legs twisting underneath him ready to spring.

“It’s me, Dick,” Bruce said.

“Oh.” He lowered his arms and looked over at his children. “What are you doing in here?”

“Just checking up on you.”

“I’m fine.”

A lie. Bruce would have known it even if he hadn’t known Dick so well. Dick was eighteen. He was coming off the most traumatic mission of his life, a mission that Bruce had sent him on knowing how it would endanger his life and soul. (He had so nearly lost his boy to Slade Wilson. He blamed himself. Yet Dick _had_ saved Bludhaven, and Bruce was proud of him for that.) That had come after the destruction of almost everything Dick had known and valued in Bludhaven, while Bruce had been distant (always arguing) with him following Jason’s death. Now some murderer wanted to use Dick’s children and Dick’s identity to control him. He could not possibly be _fine_.

“You don’t look it,” Bruce said.

“I have to be fine,” Dick corrected himself.

The bare minutes of sleep he’d got hadn’t diminished the dark shadows underneath Dick’s eyes. “You need to look after yourself as well. How will you take care of your children if you can’t take care of yourself?”

Bruce had intended the words to be comforting, but for whatever reason, they only made Dick’s eyes look all the emptier. The words _I didn’t mean it like that_ hovered on his tongue. “Go back to sleep, Dick,” he said instead. “It’ll be a bit better in the morning.”

He’d told Dick that many times, the few months before he was Robin, when he cried himself to sleep two nights in three. Two nights in three became one in three, then one in five, and one in ten. It _had_ got better for him. This would too. Bruce would _make sure_ it got better.

All the same, he gave Dick some space, and retreated to the doorway. Dick settled back onto the mattress, pulling a blanket up over himself, sticking a hand back into the crib so he could rest it across his daughters. It didn’t look very comfortable, but Bruce knew better than to do anything about that. If the discomfort bothered him more than the physical contact helped, Dick would have moved his arm himself.

It wasn’t long before Dick fell asleep again. Ignoring his own tiredness, Bruce stayed in the doorway for a long time, watching all three Graysons.

 

—

 

Tim had worked out how to break into his house when he was five, and done it for the first time when he was six. At thirteen, with the benefit of Robin training, there was no stopping him. The route through the kitchen was safest -

“Tim? Is that you?”

Except, he reminded himself, for the human element. He had to start taking that into account more. “Yeah, dad,” he said. “Just getting a glass of water.” Because he was thirsty after the long round trip to Bludhaven, sure, the context was such nobody could really say he was being _honest_ , but he was technically being truthful.

Tim tried to be truthful with his father as often as he could. He was lucky. He still _had_ his father. And Dana wasn’t so bad. It was just weird to have parents actually around the house, asking how his day was…asking when they found him up and about at four in the morning. He hoped his father didn’t notice Tim was wearing shoes. He sat down, hiding his feet from view under the kitchen table.

“Couldn’t sleep?” his father asked.

“No,” Tim said.

“Anything on your mind?”

Plenty. He was lying to his father and sneaking out nightly to be a vigilante. Balancing that with schoolwork was a nightmare. There was a new boss taking over the drug trade in Crime Alley. Steph was out there on the streets being Spoiler and he was worried about her. And Dick had children - _children_ \- and Bruce was going to flip out. He was probably flipping out right now, in fact. “It’s just a little stress,” Tim said. “I haven’t bought Dana a Christmas present yet.”

That was a correct answer. His father smiled at him. “It’s keeping you up at nights, huh?”

“It’s her first Christmas here,” Tim said. “I don’t want to be rude or mean to her.”

“Just the fact that you’re thinking of her will make her feel better, trust me,” his father said. “How about I take you to get something for her after breakfast?”

He had to do a big chunk of his Christmas vacation work today, he still had to write up a report from last patrol for Batman, and he was really hoping he could go check on Dick. His dad didn’t approve of Bruce Wayne in general, and Tim knew he’d be instantly suspicious of Dick if Tim started hanging around with him as a civilian. Tim could almost hear the dissuasion. _Don’t you think he’s a little old to be friends with you?_

Visiting was and would be almost entirely restricted to Robin time. He had to fit in training and patrol into his daily schedule as well. The double life thing hadn’t been nearly so difficult when his dad was out at all hours of the day doing physio.

“That’d be great,” Tim said, yawning. “Thanks, dad.”

His father smiled even wider. Tim felt like the worst person in the world. “Okay, son,” he said. “Go get some sleep. It’s still early.”

“I’m not quite ready to go to sleep again,” Tim lied. He was only halfway through kicking off his shoes. “You go ahead. I’ll be fine.”

His dad bought it. As soon as he was gone, Tim slumped across the table. He was so tired and now he’d have to stay up another ten minutes. He’d done plenty more demanding things in his life, though. He texted Dick something supportive, not knowing if he’d see it before Bruce inevitably flipped out, and finally headed upstairs to his bed. His last thought before falling asleep was _what a mess_.

There was no reply on his phone by breakfast, five hours later. Tim wasn’t surprised. He couldn’t even get his head around how much work two children must be. Best case scenario, Alfred or Bruce was watching Dick’s children while he slept.

“Thinking hard there, Timmy,” his dad said.

“What?”

“Thinking hard,” his dad repeated. “You know what, I don’t think you got enough sleep last night.”

“I’m fine,” Tim said. “Really, I wake up in the middle of the night a lot. You don’t have to worry.” And more importantly, his father didn’t have to check on him. If he started doing _that_ , he was in trouble. “Are we going out soon?”

“Before the shops get crowded,” his father agreed. He’d recovered well from his injuries nearly two years ago now, but moving around in busy areas was still difficult for him. Without Dana there to help support him, Tim knew he’d want to go and return as soon as possible. “I’ve already got a few places we can try.”

They took a taxi. Jack Drake wasn’t well enough to drive, and as far as the state was concerned, thirteen-year-old Tim didn’t know how. At least it saved time looking to park.

It had been a very long time since Tim had been out with just his dad. If he’d ever been out with just his dad. Tim thought back - on the rare occasions his parents were around before his mother died, he’d gone out with both of them. He’d spent time with his dad when he was in the hospital, but Dana had come along not long after that.

As the taxi pulled up by their first stop, Tim saw -

“What is it?”

“Nothing,” Tim said. “I thought I saw someone I knew.” But it was impossible. Just a coincidence, or a chance resemblance. There had to be a lot of people who looked a bit like Jason Todd in Gotham City. Tim put it out of his mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks very much everyone who's left feedback of any sort! The response to this fic, seriously, everyone's been great. Next chapter will be up same time next week!
> 
> NEXT TIME:
> 
> “No, you don’t understand,” Dick said. “They’re beautiful, and I shouldn’t have them. They’re too - I’m going to ruin them, Alfred, I shouldn’t even be allowed to want them. They deserve better than - I should have given them up.” He reached out to touch them, but drew his hand back. “I can’t touch them, I can’t. If it weren’t for - Social Services must have got better in the last ten years, right Alfred? I need to -“


	4. Today's Reality

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dick's mental health worsens. Bruce succeeds in both brooding and Christmas shopping.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the 24-hour delay! No warnings apply that didn't before.

Dick woke up, with that particular grogginess that came with the end of the first sleep after a long stint awake, to bright winter sunlight and a baby crying. _The hell?_ he thought. _What’s a baby doing so close to my head?_

Then it all came crashing back. That was _his_ baby crying. One of them anyway.

Three days and he was already sleeping through his babies crying. Dick jumped upright and leapt to the baby’s side. Bridget. Bridget was the one crying. He picked her up and tried to rock her. He checked her diaper - clean. She might be hungry. That was possible. Probable.

How long had he been asleep? It had been - some time - since he’d showered and rested, because the babies needed him. What if anything happened while he wasn’t looking after them?

God, he didn’t know anything about babies. How could he have babies?

Oh, yes. Because he was stupid and worthless and let a murderer fuck him as part of her post-crime celebrations. A crime that he’d joined in on. That was why he had babies. “Sorry, baby Bri,” he said. “Your papa’s no good.” Not at being a dad, or a son, or a hero.

Next problem. Getting both babies down to the kitchen so he could feed them. This would have been so much easier if there was only one baby. Or better yet, no babies - no. He wanted the girls. He wanted them. Both of them.

Amy started crying too. It grated. Badly. Dick packed them in their carriers and took them down to the kitchen.

“The joys of parenthood know no bounds,” Alfred said, as Dick put the babies on the table. “I have taken the liberty of heating formula for Miss Amy and Miss Bridget. Once you feed them, Master Richard, I must insist that you bathe yourself and your children, in whichever order you prefer.”

“Kids first,” Dick said. He picked up the prepared bottle. He was getting a bit used to this, at least, holding the bottle steady while Amy or Bridget sucked on it. They looked so peaceful while they drank. Dick knew they had no idea how messed up everything was. Before he knew it they’d be walking and talking and asking why they didn’t have a mama.

What would he tell them then? Papa helped mama kill a man and then they went for some not-so-happy happy time? Well, _mama_ liked it, anyway…

Before he knew it he was staring blankly down at a plate of grown-up food.

“Oh, Master Richard,” Alfred sighed. “Don’t tell me you haven’t eaten since you picked up the young misses.”

Dick couldn’t remember. He might have eaten. Maybe. Something? He’d had other things on his mind. Either way he picked up his spoon and started mechanically shovelling down the breakfast Alfred served him. He barely tasted it.

Bath time was a whole different kind of stress. Once he stripped the girls out of their onesies - did he even have spares? - there was nothing to tell between them. They were two identical infants in need of a bath. He’d only bathed them one at a time before. Heart pounding and panic pressing at his brain, he grabbed at a tube of waterproof lipstick (cosmetics of all types could be found in the bathrooms of Wayne Manor) and wrote A on Amy’s hand and B on Bridget’s. That would have to do until he could put them back in their labelled clothing. What sort of dad would he be if he got his own children mixed up?

Alfred proved once again to be a lifesaver. “Master Richard, I have procured additional clothing for the young misses,” he said. “I noted the lack last night and went out this morning.” He’d gone and bought something like twenty bits of clothing for the girls, half of them in pink and half of them in yellow. On the day before Christmas. Alfred was a champion, but this was going above and beyond. “I thought the colour coding might be of use.”

He shot a look at the A and the B on the hands of the respective babies. Dick felt yet another stab of guilt. “I should have realised,” he muttered. “Alfred, I mean it, I can’t keep living off Bruce’s charity-“

“Nonsense,” Alfred said briskly. “You are clearly in need of at least _some_ assistance, which Master Bruce and myself are only too happy to provide, and besides, this is a slightly early Christmas gift for Miss Amy and Miss Bridget. It is a surrogate great-grandfather’s prerogative to spoil his surrogate great-grandchildren. Now, think carefully, Master Richard. Which baby shall we all be associating with which colour?”

Amy ended up in yellow and Bridget in pink. Dick found himself staring down at them, not touching, just staring. He’d realised something. “They’re beautiful,” he said. Not squashed or red at all. Well, maybe a little red.

Alfred chuckled. “Yes, Master Richard. And as their father, nobody will blame you for saying so loudly and often.”

“No, you don’t understand,” Dick said. “They’re beautiful, and I shouldn’t have them. They’re too - I’m going to _ruin_ them, Alfred, I shouldn’t even be allowed to want them. They deserve better than - I should have given them up.” He reached out to touch them, but drew his hand back. “I can’t touch them, I can’t. If it weren’t for - Social Services must have got better in the last ten years, right Alfred? I need to -“

“Go,” Alfred said. “Go train on the uneven bars for a while. You do not seem to be thinking clearly. It’s been a few days since you’ve exercised, hasn’t it?”

“Not since before -“ Dick couldn’t look away from his girls. Couldn’t keep them, couldn’t give them up. “What if - someone has to look after them, someone I trust - but -“

“Trust me, Master Richard. They’re sleeping at present. Go do something that makes you feel better. I will look after the young misses for an hour or two.”

And god help him, Dick fled from his own daughters, all the way down to the cave. Trying not to think, he changed into training gear, stretched, and flung himself upwards. What had ever made him think he could take care of one child, let alone two? Him, Dick Grayson, Slade’s ex-apprentice, Tarantula’s - Tarantula’s - 

One of Blockbuster’s murderers. 

It felt good to be away from the babies. More than it should have. He was their _dad_ , he was supposed to love them, and he did love them, it just hurt to look at them and he couldn’t touch them anymore, no matter what. He didn’t know what they needed. He didn’t know what _he_ needed, if he had the right to consider his needs at all. He didn’t know what he wanted, which, likewise. He didn’t even know what he deserved, beyond jail time.

Bruce was right to be angry with him. Oh, he’d tamped down on it for Alfred’s sake, but Dick had _seen_. Bruce had raised him better. Or he’d tried to, anyway. No wonder Bruce had started pulling away from him. He must have seen something like this - well, maybe not the whole teenage single father thing - but _something_ coming.

Even distracted, working on the unevens felt good. He loved being Nightwing, yet another thing he hadn’t deserved since the stairwell, but that would have to change too. He couldn’t even have that anymore, the thing he’d clung to as a possible means of atonement.

For a while, he managed to lose himself in the exercise. Air and movement. Trajectories. The burn in his muscles. These things he knew. This was still the same. Something still had to be.

 

\---

 

Bruce walked into the kitchen only to find a pair of babies on the table, right where he usually read the paper. He could hardly have forgotten how Dick had walked in with the children, nor his research earlier in the morning. But there was that, and then there were _infants._ Right there. In his spot.

Living, breathing infants. Born in a maximum security prison.

Bruce had never interacted with babies before. What did one _do_ with an infant, anyway? He was aware they needed a lot of sleep, but surely the rest of their day couldn’t be taken up by eating and bathing?

Where was Alfred? He was always better at this sort of thing. Even more relevant, Bruce thought, frown etching itself into his face, where was the girls’ _father_? If he was going to keep these children, he would have to be responsible for them.

He peered at the girls. They were very small, and surely they were now wearing different clothes. They had both been in standard baby girl pink before. Now one was in yellow. There was no telling which one. Bruce looked hard at them, trying to find a difference between them, trying to see their father.

It was no good. They were too small. Their pink, pudgy features didn’t recall anyone in particular. Once that pink subsided a bit, they’d be darker-skinned than Dick, he thought. Their blue eyes would probably turn brown in time, like their mother’s. Bruce would much prefer these children resembled their father. They did have his pitch-black hair, what few strands they had on their soft heads, rather than Flores’ very dark brown.

They were his granddaughters. His. It was a cruel twist of fate that made him their _only_ grandparent.

Not that he’d adopted Dick officially, the papers were in his study, unsigned, but still. Dick was his son. He didn’t know precisely when the boy had become his, just that one day about three years ago he’d looked at Dick, thought _he’s growing up_ , and realised that the thought had been laden with paternal pride. Close on the heels of that thought had been terrible fear, and he’d all but destroyed his relationship with Dick because of it.

Jason - nothing about Jason had helped in that regard. He had come to love Jason just as much as Dick, but had treated him poorly because he couldn’t handle his own emotions. It was his fault, how Jason had felt about him, and Bruce would never get to fix that. Never get to apologise properly.

Even at eighteen (too young! What had he been _thinking_?) Dick would probably make a better parent than Bruce had. Just - with _Tarantula_?

The important thing was that these were Dick’s children. That above all. The children were innocent of their mother’s crimes. He had to make sure they were provided for. Protected from Tarantula.

One girl, the one in pink, blinked at him and waved a small hand in his general direction.

“You are allowed to touch them, Master Bruce,” Alfred said from behind him, sounding highly amused. “In fact, I would encourage it.”

“Which one’s which?” he asked. Dick had put labels on them earlier. It might have been the most sensible thing he did regarding them. He’d been staring for several minutes now and still couldn’t tell them apart.

“Miss Amy is in yellow. Miss Bridget is the delightful child who just attempted to wave at you.”

“And you’re sure I can pick one of them up?”

“Either at a time, and both eventually.”

Oh, Alfred was enjoying himself. Bruce had known his butler had a soft spot for small children. That had been evident the instant Dick set foot in the manor. He hadn’t known Alfred was so fond of _babies_. Awkwardly, Bruce reached into the carrier and picked Bridget up. His hands dwarfed her. It felt like she hardly weighed anything.

With Alfred’s help, he got her settled in his arms, head properly supported. Bridget gurgled, drooled on the sleeve of Bruce’s expensive jumper, and fell asleep again. To be fair, Alfred picked up Amy. Unlike her sister, she stayed awake. When both babies were arranged to Alfred’s satisfaction, Bruce asked, “Has Dick told you anything about their mother?”

“No,” Alfred said, “And nor have I pushed him to.” _I knew you would find out yourself,_ Bruce heard.

“Catalina Flores,” Bruce said.

“The woman who attempted to kill Barbara Gordon in March?” Alfred frowned. “Oh dear.”

“They were born in Lockhaven’s infirmary, Alfred.” A prison where, no doubt, there were many criminals who hated Nightwing with a passion. 

Alfred shook his head. “Not that. Master Bruce, Master Richard has been expressing certain…shall we say, self-worth issues. He feels he does not deserve to keep, or even touch, his children, or to receive your support.”

It was Bruce’s turn to frown. “Of course he’ll have my support.”

“Whether he’ll have that support is the secondary issue,” Alfred said. “You and I both know you would never dream of cutting him off financially in this situation. He does not believe he _deserves_ it. Something is very wrong with him at the moment. He even announced his intention not to touch his daughters again unless he must. I sent him downstairs to get some exercise and hopefully work off that nonsense to a degree.”

Now that he thought about it… “That doesn’t sound like Dick.”

“Indeed not, sir.  Have you any idea of the cause?”

“I have no idea. Shock, maybe?” Not that Dick had ever reacted to shock like this before. In fact, when shocked and upset, his reaction was the opposite, showing and seeking out great deals of affection, usually physical in nature. Bridget shifted in his arms, still sound asleep. Really, Bruce would have expected Dick to be up here, barely able to be pried away from the girls with a crowbar and a tub of grease, shock or no shock. The only time Bruce could recall Dick _hadn’t_ been like that was earlier in the year -

\- about the time he must have had the affair with Tarantula that produced his new daughters.

“Something is very wrong, Alfred,” Bruce said.

“As I’ve been trying to tell you.”

Bruce tried to gesture angrily, but there was a baby in his arms. Still. She was very light. “I’ll investigate this,” he said. The whole matter should have been over with Tarantula’s incarceration.

“After Christmas,” Alfred said firmly. Without fuss, he helped Bruce exchange pink-clad Bridget for yellow-clad Amy, so he could hold his other granddaughter. “The investigation you propose has waited nine months or more. It can wait a few more days.”

“Christmas.” He looked down at Amy Grayson, who hadn’t woken up with the move to Bruce’s arms. “I ought to get them a present. Birthday and Christmas. What do you get babies, anyway?” Aside from starting up trust funds for them, which wasn’t so much a present as a matter of course. That would also have to wait until after the holidays.

“Toys and clothing are always acceptable. _Soft_ toys. And for the foreseeable future, Dick will be dressing Amy in yellow and Bridget in pink.”

“Thank you, Alfred.” It was getting on late afternoon on Christmas Eve. If he wanted to get his granddaughters presents, he would have to go now. “You don’t mind continuing to watch them while Dick…adjusts?”

Alfred frowned at him. “Master Bruce, must I remind you that these problems with Master Richard cannot be solved purely by the application of enough money?”

“It can’t hurt,” he replied, and got a full-blown glare for the words. “I know, Alfred. I know. I don’t know what to say to him. I need a bit more time. I have to get this _right_.”

“As long as you consider that your presence or absence in this house may constitute doing something correctly,” Alfred said sharply. “Or incorrectly, as the case may be. Dinner will be served at six. If you are not here for it, I will leave the matter up to you.”

That was an Alfred ultimatum if ever Bruce had heard one.

Christmas traffic was terrible, and the first store Bruce pulled up at was packed. There wasn’t much option, though. He had bought Dick a present weeks ago, but he had been unable to predict the sudden arrival of two more Graysons. He dodged a young family, nearly ran into a burly young man’s broad back, and tried to steer around an old man with a cane, all between two adjacent stores.

Baby stores. Not places Bruce had ever thought he’d frequent. He had gone semi-incognito, not wanting to attract anyone’s attention to Bruce Wayne buying toys and clothing for an infant. No doubt someone would notice that Dick had children eventually, and put it in the tabloids, but for these first few days surely Bruce could ensure Dick didn’t have to deal with paparazzi and tut-tutting over teenage single parents.

Or speculation over the babies’ mother. Worse, confirmation of the babies’ mother. Dick deserved better. So did his children.

First things first, he had about an hour, maybe ninety minutes, to buy presents. In this shop full of racks of small pastel clothes and piles of plush toys, he felt very out of his depth. Pastels just didn’t seem right for a Grayson. Even a baby Grayson. 

Bruce rejected the pastels and selected several toys and brighter items of clothing, before looking over to something he personally hated: Justice League merchandise. It had even made its way to baby clothing now. The only reason he didn’t object as Batman was because part of the profits from any merchandise went back to the League. It couldn’t fund everything, but it took some of the burden off him. It only cost him a bit of pride.

Dick, on the other hand, _loved_ the merchandise. Surely he would like seeing his daughters wearing some. With a heavy internal sigh, Bruce picked out a selection. It was a gift. It wasn’t about him. A pair of stuffed elephants and a mobile of dangling birds joined the clothes.

That would have to do.

There were other things Bruce wanted to get, he’d spend millions on Amy and Bridget Grayson if their father would let him, but he would not, and besides, the afternoon had almost become evening. Alfred would be preparing dinner, Dick hopefully long since worked into a healthier sort of exhaustion. Cass had forgotten Christmas was a family occasion (it was her first time celebrating the holiday, and Bruce had neglectfully assumed she’d know), and would be in Hong Kong until after the new year and the party that went with it, but she had promised to call. Tim’s father had insisted he stay in their own house for the holidays, but if Bruce knew Tim, he’d find a way to sneak out.

He missed Jason more than he could say. Jason, who had only two Christmases at the the manor. He should have had more. Last Christmas, the first after his death, had been…difficult. Everything was too raw. He had fought bitterly with Dick, home for the holidays, and they hadn’t spoken between Christmas and New Year.

If he hadn’t fought with Dick like that, would any of the business with Blockbuster and Tarantula happened as it had?

It wasn’t a matter for today. Or tomorrow. He had to _not_ get angry with Dick right now, another thing he was exceptionally bad at when afraid for his son. And he was afraid; something was very wrong. Bruce would have expected Dick to be shocked, embarrassed, uncertain, afraid for his new children, hesitant about the responsibility - he had not expected this frenzy of self-loathing.

He hadn’t expected the shame.

Distracted and concerned, he only noticed that someone was following him as he returned to his car. By then, it was too late to do anything but lose them on the way back to the Manor. It was almost Christmas, and he had larger concerns.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again to everyone who's left feedback! Next chapter will be in ten days - sorry for the delay.
> 
>  
> 
> NEXT TIME:
> 
> “I’m not suggesting you go out every night,” Bruce said. “But if you’re uninjured and can get a babysitter on the nights you patrol, giving up night work entirely isn’t necessary.”
> 
> He didn’t understand. When Dick said he wasn’t fit, he meant morally fit. Bruce would figure it out eventually. “Maybe,” Dick said. “I’m not sure I’ll be much good for it…not for a while, anyway.”
> 
> “Come out with me tonight. A short patrol. Christmas Eve is usually quiet.”


	5. A Quiet Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just a normal Christmas Eve patrol.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The story tags and the warnings on the first chapter should cover the potentially triggering stuff in this chapter. (Though please let me know if I've missed any warnings.)

“Where’d Bruce go?” Dick asked Alfred when he came back up to the main house. He felt a bit better for having exercised and showered. A bit more centred. Not _well_ , there was still a twisting sensation in the middle of his chest. Guilt and shame and fear. They were all tiring emotions.

“He went to purchase Christmas gifts for your new arrivals,” Alfred said.

Dick caught himself before he could say “he didn’t have to,” because of course Bruce was fine spending money. He knew how to interpret that. And he was glad Bruce was accepting the girls, really he was. He _knew_ his family wouldn’t reject Amy and Bridget because he’d been stupid and pathetic. Speaking of stupid and pathetic, _he_ hadn’t done the bulk of his own shopping. He still didn’t have a proper crib, or a stroller, and he was pretty sure they were running out of formula -

“Breathe,” said Alfred.

He didn’t leave Dick until he was satisfied that Dick wasn’t going to start hyperventilating. But leave he had to, and once again Dick was left with his children. They were awake now, in need of food and a change. Dick got to it, realising as he did that this was going to be his life for the next few years. Feeding and changing and looking after and being responsible. It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t _fair_.

But no, he’d wanted it, hadn’t he? He hadn’t fought back. He’d got hard when Tarantula climbed on him. He’d come from what she did. He had to take responsibility, didn’t he? He was a grown-up. If he didn’t want children, maybe he shouldn’t have helped kill a man and then had sex with the co-murderer.

Both girls started to cry.

That was how Bruce found him, after whatever length of time later. Trying frantically and unsuccessfully to calm down the babies crying for no reason that he could see. “I’m so bad at this,” Dick said, not even able to turn around to where his not-father was standing in the doorway. “I’m sorry. This can’t be how you wanted to spend Christmas.”

“I was surprised,” Bruce said. His voice was carefully even. After years of knowing him, Dick knew that that tone meant Bruce was trying not to let anger show. “But they are your children. They are as welcome here as you are.”

Oh. With an effort, Dick managed not to wince. He had hoped - Bruce wouldn’t abandon them totally, of that he was certain - but he wasn’t looking forward to the future, when Bruce found out what Dick had done and barred him from the Manor. And his girls with him.

“Dick. I know who their mother is.”

Dick swallowed, hard. “You looked it up.” Not a surprise.

“I did. I won’t lie and say I’m… _pleased_ …about the situation more generally, but your daughters will always be welcome here no matter who their mother is.”

Bruce's honesty. Dick much preferred it when Bruce was honest with him, even when he said things Dick didn't want to hear. Because he'd been honest, Dick could ask his next question. Mouth dry, he asked, “And their father?”

Bruce frowned. “What are you trying to say, Dick?”

“You know what I mean,” he said.

They didn’t _talk_ about that horrible fight they’d had after Jason’s funeral. Both of them would much rather pretend it had never happened. But Bruce _had_ said that Dick wasn’t welcome in the Manor anymore. He couldn’t just forget that. Not even when he’d been invited back in.

“You are welcome here too.” The words came out grudgingly. He knew Bruce hated having to articulate things like this. “I’m not going to kick you out.”

Bruce said that, but he didn’t know about Blockbuster, or the whole truth about what happened with Tarantula. When he found out about _that_ , things would no doubt change. But Dick would hold Bruce to his promise, if it came to that. His daughters were innocent. They didn’t deserve to suffer for the terrible, _stupid_ things Dick had done. “Thanks,” he managed.

This was all very awkward. Especially since the babies were still crying. “Here,” Bruce said, stepping forward. “Let me try.”

He picked up Bridget. The sight of a small pink-clad child in Bruce’s arms was incongruous. For the first time he understood a bit of why people had been so surprised when Bruce took him in, though from a slightly different perspective. Bruce with a baby. It just looked _wrong_. But - and Dick was grateful for it - Bridget did quiet down.

“Have you thought about what you’ll do after the Christmas holidays?” Bruce asked abruptly. “You’ll have to balance college and night work with…”

“The babies?” Dick looked at Amy. He should pick her up, like Bruce was holding Bridget. “I - I don’t think I’m fit to do my night work.”

“Are you injured?”

“No…”

“I’m not suggesting you go out every night,” Bruce said. “But if you’re uninjured and can get a babysitter on the nights you patrol, giving up night work entirely isn’t necessary.”

He didn’t understand. It hurt, but it was better than him knowing. When Dick said he wasn’t fit, he meant morally fit. Bruce would figure it out eventually. “Maybe,” Dick said. “I’m not sure I’ll be much good for it…not for a while, anyway.”

“Come out with me tonight. A short patrol. Christmas Eve is usually quiet.”

Dick sighed. “Bruce, I already left the girls with Alfred for most of the afternoon. I _can’t_ just dump them on him all the time. It’s not fair, and I’m supposed to be responsible for them.”

His not-quite-father looked at him. “You’ll make a good father,” he said quietly. “It’s not how I would have wanted you to become a parent, or who I would have wanted you to become a parent with, but now that you have children anyway I think you’ll do well with them.”

A lump formed in Dick’s throat. “I hope so.”

He already knew it wouldn’t be true.

 

—

 

It seemed like forever before his father went to sleep. But he did, and Tim took his chance to sneak over to Wayne Manor. There wouldn’t be time for him to go on a full patrol. At least it was only the Christmas Eve patrol. Hardly anything happened on Christmas Eve.

Also, he wanted to see his honorary nieces again, out of costume. They were cute. It was still strange to think that Dick was a _dad_ now. Tim would adjust. Faster than Dick, probably. He couldn’t wait to tell Steph, but if he did, Spoiler would find some way to congratulate Nightwing, and Dick didn’t seem like he was up for dealing with Steph’s enthusiasm.

He let himself into the Cave, which was occupied only by Batman. “Tim,” he said gravely, with a brief incline of his head.

“Batman,” Tim replied, equally formal. “Is Nightwing coming with us tonight?”

“No,” Batman said. “He’s with his daughters.”

“And how are _they_? Can I see them?”

“You’d have to ask him. After patrol, if he’s awake.” That was slightly disappointing, but not far off what he’d expected. Batman turned fully to Tim after saying it. “I need your help, Tim.”

“Anything,” Tim said. _Tim_ , not Robin.

His wrist computer pinged at him, files arriving on it. He opened it to find a profile he hadn’t read thoroughly before, the name _Catalina Flores_ heading it. Beneath it was the word _Tarantula_ , and three pictures in a row. The same woman, three times - once as a civilian, one wearing orange and black and a mask, and a mugshot. Date of incarceration, April. She’d murdered the Bludhaven chief of police. Life without parole. If what Dick had said about Bludhaven’s finest was true, she was lucky to have made it as far as the courthouse.

“I need you to investigate her,” Bruce said while Tim read. 

Habit dragged Tim’s eyes instantly to _known relatives_ and _known associates_. Listed under _relatives_ , after a brother who had also been jailed (in June, on charges of corruption), were the names _Amy Grayson_ and _Bridget Grayson_.

“This is…?”

“Yes.”

Tim looked at the pictures. Catalina Flores was beautiful. Beautiful and a few years older than Dick - both characteristics of the women Dick preferred to date. The murderer thing was not his usual type, though. Dick might have been a sucker for a pretty face, but not _that_ much of a sucker.

Boy, he did not want to be around when Dick finally summoned the courage to let Barbara know.

“There’s something very wrong about this,” Bruce continued. “I can’t investigate it myself properly right now. Dick needs…someone.”

 _He needs his father._ But Bruce wasn’t the sort to just come out and say that. That admission just then was as close as he’d ever get. Not to mention that Bruce himself probably needed to stay close to Dick while _he_ adjusted. Tim admired and liked Bruce, admired Batman, but his inability to deal with emotion was easy to see. This had shocked him badly. “I understand,” he said. “I’ll start looking into it, but I won’t be able to visit Bludhaven again until after Christmas.”

“That’s fine. I doubt there’ll be time-critical evidence left after this long.”

Time-critical evidence of what? That was the question. Tim wasn’t sure he wanted any answers, either. But Dick had just looked so out of it… It could just be becoming a parent. Maybe there was an innocent explanation. Normal reasons for him looking so vacant, so upset. 

That hollow smile, when he’d first seen Tim. The fear, when Tim first saw Amy and Bridget. No, that couldn’t possibly be right.

“I’ll do what I can,” Tim promised.

He suited up in silence, then he and Batman warmed up. It was usually like that between them. Neither of them needed to speak much.

They were interrupted, quite unexpectedly, by a weary, “Hey.”

Dick came down the steps, baby carrier in his arms, domino mask incongruously worn with civvies. Tim looked over to the computer and saw the other baby carrier. They were both occupied by, surprisingly enough, a baby. They looked a bit less red today. “Which one’s which?” he asked.

“Amy,” Dick pointed, “and Bridget.”

“What are you doing down here, Dick?” Bruce asked, while Tim reached into Bridget’s carrier to hold her little hand. So much for seeing them out of costume. Oh well. Better than not seeing them at all. “I thought you weren’t patrolling tonight.”

“I’m not. Alfred suggested I come down here and run the computer for you. I’ll keep the girls out of the camera sightlines in case anyone calls, and set everything to verbal commands so I can help even if I get…called away.”

More evidence that something was wrong. Tim would have thought Dick would _love_ to show his children off to the Justice League. To Wally, at least. It seemed more likely that Dick would ask for help to hack their computers and put baby photos up. Dick would not be above that. Or he wouldn’t be, when he was feeling more like his usual self.

If Bruce knew, he didn’t say anything. He just nodded. “Acceptable. Thank you for your help.”

“It’s Christmas Eve,” Dick said. “Family time, right?”

Bruce didn’t answer that. Nor did Tim think it was his place. This family, where nobody was bound by blood and everyone had chosen each other, could sometimes be awkward. It was hard to know where the edges were. Tim didn’t think he was really part of it, honorary uncle or not.

The silence got tense.

“We don’t have all night,” Batman said at last.

“Yeah,” Dick muttered. “Call if you need me.”

They left. 

Christmas Eve in Gotham was almost always quiet. It was just how it was. Even criminals generally liked to spend time with their families around the holidays. Everything but robbery quieted down, and the murders and assaults tended to be personal, crimes of passion, within the home, rather than street crime. Not the sort of thing Batman and Robin could prevent often.

Tonight, though… “I’m getting activity in the East End,” Robin reported from his assigned rooftop. “Looks like shipments to Black Mask’s gang.”

“Any sign of trouble?” Batman asked.

“Men with guns and drugs. The usual.” They were unloading a truck. So far, so ordinary. Not the sort of thing Robin could usually disrupt without help. So he stayed and watched. “Wait,” he said, noticing something. “They’re wearing the wrong colours. It’s not Black Mask.”

Over the headset, Dick asked, “Is Mask having it out with someone?”

“You could say that,” Batman said, voice dry. “He calls himself the Red Hood.”

Tim could almost hear Dick frown. “As in the Joker’s alias? He’s only ever been interested in the drug trade for keeping his supplies of Joker Venom open. Is he expanding operations?”

“No,” Batman said. “This is someone else. If the Joker objects to his alias being commandeered, he hasn’t done anything about it yet. The second Red Hood is new on the scene. Young male, tall, muscular. He wears a complete helmet. Red. Since his appearance two months ago he’s been slicing off pieces of Black Mask’s trade. He’s got zero tolerance for people selling to children, and a few suspected rapists have been found dead in the neighbourhoods he’s claimed.”

“Huh. Sounds like he could be worse.”

“He’s not an indiscriminate killer,” Batman allowed.

Tim heard Dick tapping at keys. It sounded one-handed; Dick’s typing speed was normally much faster. Looking through the files on the Red Hood with one hand, a baby in the other, he would bet. “Says here you think he’s trying to attract your attention,” Dick said.

“Yes,” Batman said.

Tim frowned. “Like by organising a delivery on the quietest night of the year? Could that be a way he’s trying to get your attention?”

Behind him, a slightly distorted, metallic voice said, “Pretty much.”

 

—

 

Tim turned to find almost exactly the person Batman had just described. In person, there were always more details than a file could show. Young male - early twenties at the absolute oldest, Tim thought. Though he was muscular, there was something still distinctly undeveloped about that muscle mass. His brown leather jacket was just tight enough to show that. More likely the Red Hood was in his late teens. The red helmet the man took his name from hewed closely to the lines of his face, but not close enough to outline what was beneath. There had to be some sort of filter in it, since Tim couldn’t see holes for eyes, nose or mouth.

He was also pointing a gun right at Tim. He had a solid, practised grip and steady aim, that nevertheless looked as though he was ready to adjust if Tim made a break for it. Worse, somehow he’d snuck up on Tim, on _Robin_ , and that was just embarrassing. Not to mention potentially fatal.

Robin did the sensible thing. He stayed perfectly still. The Red Hood could have shot him dead three times over by now. If he wanted to kill Robin, he wanted to gloat about it first.

And Robin knew how to handle gloaters. You kept them talking until Batman arrived. Even now he could hear Dick giving directions over the earpiece. Batman was on his way.

“So, the little birdie’s all on his own,” the Red Hood said. “No big bad bat looking after him.” Tim did not reply, and after a few beats, the Red Hood sneered, “Nothing to say for yourself?”

“I don’t know what you want from me,” Tim said. “Yes, I’m on my own.” Not for long, though, and he knew both Batman and Dick would be listening. Unfortunately, if the Red Hood was good enough to sneak up on him, and if he knew anything about Batman, he’d be anticipating the interruption.

“What do I want…” The words sounded pensive. _Feigned_ pensive. The Red Hood already knew what he wanted. Tim could almost hear the smile. He couldn’t see it with the helmet. “Oh yes. I want _this_.”

He lowered the gun and fired. Ready for something like that, Tim rolled to the side. The bullet hit next to his foot, sending a few chips of concrete flying. Over the earpiece, he heard Dick shouting and the babies crying in the background. He tuned it out. Still no sign of Batman, unsurprisingly. Tim got his feet under him and prepared to lunge, but faster than he expected, Red Hood readjusted his aim so that the gun was once again pointed between Tim’s eyes. “Uh-uh,” Red Hood said. Tim thought better of attacking, and settled back in a crouch, ready to dodge again.

“Sorry about that,” Red Hood said, words dripping insincerity. “I’m such a bad shot.”

As if. Only a very good or a very careless marksman would risk shooting like that. The Red Hood fired again, just to make the point. Tim dodged again, and once again they returned to their little standoff. He just needed one opening. The gloaters usually left them.

“Why work on Christmas Eve?” Tim asked, still looking down the barrel of the gun. If he could get Red Hood talking, it would be that much longer until he fired again, maybe to hurt or kill him. Stall until Batman came. And as long as he was talking, Dick would know he was all right.

“It’s a good night for it,” Red Hood said. “Quiet on the streets. Besides, I thought I’d give your boss a present.” He pulled the trigger on the final word. Caught slightly off guard, Tim didn’t dodge it entirely and the bullet grazed his calf. It didn’t penetrate the kevlar-nomex blend, but it still hurt. It’d probably bruise. He hoped the ricochets weren’t going anywhere too dangerous.

If it had hit him as intended, Tim would have been seriously hurt.

“What do you mean by ‘a present?’”

Keep him talking. Every syllable was more information. The voice was still distorted and unrecognisable, but the accent was pure Gotham, the same middle-class drawl Batman had coached into Tim and Dick and even himself. It was so perfectly middle-class Gotham, in fact, Tim wondered if it was as fake as his own. If so, what accent was it hiding?

“You’ll find out.”

A fourth shot, and this time Red Hood was a hair slow to bring his gun back up. Tim leapt. If he could disarm this guy, he’d chance the physical fight. As Robin, he’d fought bigger.

Red Hood barked out a laugh as he stepped back on Tim, expertly catching his fist, shifting his grip for a throw. Tim followed rather than backing off or trying to break free, trying to stay inside Red Hood’s best range while he was held and the other man could potentially break his wrist. He got in a few sharp blows to the older man’s armoured stomach, awkward in angle but enough to get the man to release his wrist. Unfortunately it left him open enough for a tooth-rattling backhand to the face that split his lip and sent him sprawling across the rooftop, trying desperately to recover enough to turn it into a roll. His dad was not going to like that, and this time it’d be hard to blame it on bullies. Maybe _I fell down some stairs_ would work for him.

“Not bad, little birdie,” Red Hood said. He rubbed absently at his sternum with the hand not re-levelling the gun at Tim. “Not good enough, but not bad.”

Over the earpiece, he heard Dick ask, “What happened? Tim? Are you all right?” 

Batman said, “I’m almost there, Robin. Two minutes.”

Two minutes. He could hold out another two minutes.

“Bats telling you to hold on?” Red Hood asked. “I know you have an earpiece. Is he coming to save you from the mean old drug dealer?”

That, Tim didn’t want to answer. Blast, the Red Hood _had_ done his homework. “Worried?” he asked.

“Not in the slightest.”

“Not in the slightest?” Tim repeated, mostly for Dick’s benefit. Cocky. As cocky as Dick himself was - used to be - and who snorted disbelief over the earpiece. Not being worried about Bat-retribution was a game for the likes of the Joker. It had to be a lie. At least partially a lie.

“Not in the slightest,” Red Hood said. “This is how not worried I am.” 

He shot Tim in the upper arm. Thanks to his bullet-resistant costume, it didn’t penetrate - but it still _hurt_. His legs felt shaky, the arm a mass of agony. That would _definitely_ bruise. Fifth shot, Tim thought through the pain. How many bullets did that magazine hold? He recognised the model of gun, but he could also see that it had been modified. Custom job. Then, despite his obvious proficiency with hand-to-hand, was the Red Hood primarily a gunman? 

Dick was shouting in his ear again, the babies crying too, obviously unhappy that their father was unhappy. “Tim! Are you all right? _Tim!_ ”

“Fine,” he wheezed back. The earpiece wasn’t exactly a secret anymore, was it?

On the road below, Tim heard the van he’d been watching drive off. There went his chance to stop that delivery. This was not the best night of crime-fighting he’d ever had in his life. And he still might get shot, fatally this time. “Batman’s circling around behind the Red Hood now,” Dick said. “Hang on. Don’t do anything stupid.”

The Red Hood seemed to be amenable to Dick's plan. He turned his back, actually turned his back, on Robin. If only his arm wasn't so numb, Tim would take advantage of the opening in a heartbeat. “Come on,” the Red Hood muttered, looking out at the night. “Bats has got to be close by now.”

Tim gritted his teeth and asked again, “What do you _want_?”

“It’s Christmas,” Red Hood said. His distorted voice had something very ugly in it. “I’ve got presents. _He_ gets to save you. You get to live.”

The sixth shot hit Tim in the stomach.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll leave you hanging for another ten days or so (but I'll go back to weekly following that chapter). Thanks again for all the comments, kudos, and bookmarks!
> 
>  
> 
> NEXT TIME:
> 
> Bruce was running out of time. The Red Hood would escalate soon. He would stop playing with Tim, and start trying to hurt him. “Hurry,” Dick urged him over the earpiece.
> 
> They were both remembering Jason. Brave, strong Jason who Batman hadn’t been quick enough to save. He would not, could not, let the same thing happen to Tim.


	6. The Spirit of Giving

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Christmas morning, in the Batcave and at the Drakes'.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Only extra warning is for a reference to emotional abuse in the form of neglect.

As soon as Batman heard the distorted voice he dove off the building he had been perched on, engaging his grapple as he went. “Where’s Robin?” he growled into his comm, not wanting to distract his current partner from the confrontation.

“East End,” Dick reported. “Not far from your position if you bear north slightly. He’s across the road from the Zesti-Cola warehouses.”

Robin kept the line open, allowing both Batman and Dick to listen to Robin’s part of the confrontation at least. Patient and cautious, Robin asked neutral-sounding questions, and Batman could just barely make out a voice answering mockingly. The words themselves were too faint to hear. And he knew that Robin would not stand and ask such careful questions rather than take action if the other man had not got the drop on him somehow.

When the first gunshot came his heart leapt into his mouth, almost throwing him off his transfer between two rooftops. Fortunately, it was followed by a scraping, rustling sound that could only be Robin rolling away. The boy’s breath seemed to come a bit harder, but Batman could hear no signs of pain. A second shot followed it. A quick exchange, as Batman crossed a major road, and a third shot.

Bruce was running out of time. The Red Hood would escalate soon. He would stop playing with Tim, and start trying to hurt him. “Hurry,” Dick urged him over the earpiece.

They were both remembering Jason. Brave, strong Jason who Batman hadn’t been quick enough to save. He would not, could not, let the same thing happen to Tim.

More voices, a fourth gunshot. This time Batman heard the sounds of a scuffle, and faintly, distorted laughter. Whatever happened, it seemed Robin didn’t win. Dick was shouting, Dick’s daughters were crying, and Batman’s heart was now in his mouth.

He had to hurry. “I’m almost there, Robin,” he said. He knew the area. “Two minutes.”

Robin had to be able to hold out another two minutes. The rooftop was almost in sight. He grappled up a disused factory smokestack, just as gunshot five rang out. He could hear it now, not through his earpiece. They were only two rows of warehouses apart now. 

There. He could see them. Robin. Still upright, clutching his arm, favouring the one leg slightly. One of the earlier bullets could have clipped him, or concrete from a ricochet. The other man was tall and fit-looking, far bigger than Tim, bigger than Dick, approaching Bruce’s own size. The ‘red hood’ was a helmet closer-fitting than anything Batman had ever seen before. He was facing away from Robin, looking out.

“He’s looking for you,” Dick warned him.

It was hard to tell just where Red Hood was looking, with his entire face hidden. Batman was an expert at staying out of sight, though. 

There was enough moon- and streetlight for him to see Robin’s lips move as he asked _what do you_ want? And he saw as Red Hood turned and shot Tim in the stomach.

Robin collapsed instantly, just as Batman swung to the rooftop. Now was not the time for stealth. Robin was first priority. There didn’t seem to be any blood, fortunately, and before Batman could even go to his side, Robin had rolled over, wheezing with pain. The bullet hadn’t made it past his armour then. Good.

Over the earpiece, Dick was frantic. Batman tuned him out with regret and difficulty. Much as he wished to set Dick’s mind at ease, Robin was still in danger.

“There you are,” the Red Hood said. He hadn’t made any further move after firing. “I knew you’d be coming.”

“Why did you shoot Robin?” It was safe enough to ask; the Red Hood's finger was alongside the trigger, the barrel pointing slightly down. He wasn't prepared to fire.

“A Christmas present. Just like I told him. I’m a regular Santa Claus. You get to save your little bird there, and he gets to live - speaking of, you better take him to get some treatment, just in case. Happy holidays, Batman. I’ll be off. No doubt you’ll track me down, so shall we continue this later? Holidays are a time for _family_.”

“Count on it,” Batman said, lowering his voice to the tone that most criminals shook at.

The Red Hood was not most criminals, it seemed, but then again, most criminals couldn’t get the drop on Robin. He laughed, instead, a monstrous sound through the device that disguised his voice. “Oh, I will. Watch your back, old man.”

The words twinged something in his memory.

Before he could do anything else, the Red Hood threw down a smoke pellet - like he himself would use, or Nightwing, or Robin - and jumped away. Behind him, Tim groaned with pain.

Mysteries later. There were more important things at the moment. “Are you all right?” he asked, moving at last to Robin’s side and bending down to inspect him more closely. Treatment was a very good idea.

“Ouch,” Robin said. The words were fuzzy through his split lip, and blood dripped from it to the ground. He’d got to his feet, at least. He was not, however, standing up straight. His armour was much lighter than Batman’s own; the impact, though clearly the bullet hadn’t penetrated, would have been extremely painful. “M’okay. Never been shot like that before.”

“The first bullet wound is the worst,” Dick said over the comms. “In terms of shock, anyway, they all still hurt a lot. Are you two done with patrol for the night?”

“Yes,” Batman said.

“Three bullet wounds is enough for me tonight,” Robin added. Blood dripped off his chin.

Dick yelped “Three?!”, which set his babies wailing again in the background. The sound put Batman on edge. 

“None of them broke my armour,” Robin said. “I’ll be fine.”

He would have Alfred check Tim for injuries before allowing him to return home. Dangerous levels of internal bleeding were unlikely, bruised or broken ribs somewhat more so, and all in all it would be unconscionable not to check. Especially when Tim only suffered such injuries because someone had wanted to hurt Batman.

Christmas was a time for family. His family needed him right now, whether it was Tim with his gunshot bruises or Dick overwhelmed by his two crying children. The Red Hood could wait. For a few days. No more.

 

—

 

Dick had only just managed to get the girls quieted down when Batman and Robin returned, Robin looking quite a bit the worse for wear. “Merry Christmas,” he greeted them. Quietly.

Despite apparently being in some serious pain, Tim’s face brightened when he saw the babies. It was a strange look with his split lip and bloodied face, but Dick was glad someone loved them like they should be loved. “Can I hold them again?” he asked.

“If you let Alfred look at your ribs,” Dick said.

“Deal.”

True to his word, Tim sat himself down on the examination bench, patiently waiting for Alfred’s attention, Amy in his arms. Dick felt a lump in his throat at the sight. Uncle Timmy, looking after his nieces. He wished he could hug them like that. He wished he deserved to.

“Have they been crying all night?” Bruce asked, watching the scene with him.

“A fair bit of it,” Dick said.

“They didn’t like to hear you upset.”

“No.” That, or they didn’t like hearing their uncle shot. Dick sure didn’t like hearing Tim shot. “Is he really all right?”

“I believe so.”

“And this Red Hood person? How serious is his grudge?” Bruce looked troubled. Dick knew he’d brought a heaping helping of trouble back with him, in the form of two infants, but this looked worse since patrol. It was the Red Hood that had done it. A threat to Robin.

It took a while for Bruce to answer. “Serious,” he said at last. “Personal, I believe, but I don’t know who he is.”

“Could be anyone under that helmet,” Dick said. “And with the voice modifier…”

“He’s still a male between the age of sixteen and twenty-two.”

“Trained,” Tim chipped in, rocking a fussing Amy. “Confident with guns, but very good at hand-to-hand. His style seemed a bit familiar.” He blushed, and added, “He’s better than me.”

“If he’s a male between sixteen and twenty-two he’s older than you,” Dick said. “Hit his growth spurt and everything. Got some adult muscle mass. It’s a hell of an advantage in a straight fight.” Batman grunted, which was as close to an agreement as Tim was going to get from him.

Alfred appeared in the cave at last, ready to treat Tim. “Merry Christmas, young sirs,” he said. “Master Tim, I must insist that you relinquish Miss Amy while I wrap your ribs.”

“Awww,” Tim complained. Dick felt his heart tear further. “But she’s cute.”

“Extraordinarily so,” Alfred agreed. “But nevertheless, I must insist. I cannot check for breaks or bruises while you support Miss Amy’s head. Besides, it would be simply unconscionable to pay so much attention to Miss Amy and neglect Miss Bridget, who is, if I may offer a great-grandfather’s perspective on the matter, equally adorable and equally deserving of attention.”

It made Tim grin even as he put the baby down. “What about you, Bruce?” he asked. “Have you found a grandfather’s perspective yet?”

Bruce looked at the girls. He said nothing. Dick didn’t know what to think, how to feel. Bruce wouldn’t hurt his daughters. He knew that. Of course he knew that. Bruce wasn’t an evil man. He wasn’t even an _uncaring_ man. Dick knew he wasn’t worthy of that care, but the babies - they were innocent. Even if they were Dick’s, and, and Tarantula’s, they were innocent. There had to be something about them Bruce could love.

Bruce said, “Are you sure it isn’t too cold for them down here?”

Dick sighed with relief. “They have about four blankets each. Alfred insisted. And hats.”

Of course Bruce didn’t go to actually pick one of them up. Either of them. He didn’t even go to loom over them. He went to the computer instead. But he did say, “Good.”

Tim left once his ribs had been pronounced “merely bruised.” He’d rejected painkillers. They all did when possible. Wouldn’t want to build up resistance too high.

“Will you be coming back later?” Dick asked.

“For Christmas dinner? I don’t think dad will let me go. Afterwards, I think I’ll be able to sneak out for a bit.” Tim laughed a little. “I still haven’t given you your presents, after all. Or Amy and Bridget their presents.”

“You got Amy and Bridget presents?” Now he felt stricken. Alfred got them presents, Bruce got them presents, Tim got them presents, and Dick couldn’t even provide for them without relying on Bruce.

He was happy to have them. He was. He thought. There was nothing wrong with Amy and Bridget. He just - he couldn’t. Not yet. And he had to get it together. The girls _needed_ him. Not just for food and clothes and shelter, but for things like emotional support as well. Emotional development. He couldn’t have them grow up thinking he didn’t want them.

“Of course I got them presents,” Tim said, grinning. “You said I was their uncle.”

Now Tim was spending money on his girls. Good thing Dick was used to guilt and shame by now.

 

—

 

When Tim went downstairs for breakfast he braced for the commotion. He got exactly what he expected. 

Dana dropped her plate when she saw Tim’s face. “Oh my god, what happened?” she asked, rushing over. She brought her hands up, but then visibly stopped herself from touching him without permission. Her eyes stayed fixed on his split and swollen lip.

“I fell down the stairs,” Tim said. “It’s not a big deal.” Compared to the bruises on his arm and stomach, it really wasn’t. Merry Christmas to him. The Red Hood’s idea of gift-giving sucked almost as bad as the Joker’s.

“When?” Dana asked.

“Last night,” Tim said. “I couldn’t sleep, so I got up and walked around. I tripped.” As far as lies went, it was a pretty good one, he thought. It matched his last lie about his habits when he couldn’t sleep. Consistency was good, when there wasn’t a loose thread that could unravel it all.

“And you didn’t come get one of us?”

“It’s fine,” Tim said. “I can take care of myself.” He had looked after his own scrapes and minor injuries for years. Even before he became Robin.

Dana didn’t straighten up. “Oh, Tim. You don’t need to look after yourself like that just yet.”

That was what _she_ thought, and Tim couldn’t stop the spike of resentment. He’d worked out quite early on that visible injuries or no visible injuries, his parents weren’t coming home short of an actual trip to the hospital. Maybe not even then, if it was outpatient stuff. So yes, he needed to look after himself. Instead of tell her anything like that - it wasn’t Dana’s _fault_ that his parents weren’t around, she just didn’t know anything about it - he widened his eyes to the point where Bruce might say he was overacting, and said, “I just didn’t want to bother you or dad.”

“Bother us with what?” his father asked, coming into the kitchen behind him.

Tim braced himself and turned around. His father flinched. “What the hell happened?” he asked.

“I tripped,” Tim said. “Seriously, I’m fine. It’s not a big deal.”

If this went much further he’d have to blame it on school bullies. He didn’t want to do that. Sure he got bullied, as a civilian he was a skinny nerd, but it hadn’t got physical. Tim didn’t want to lie and get them in trouble they didn’t deserve. His school looked past verbal harassment, but punching? Not as much. Besides, it was much easier to get caught in _that_ lie.

“Fine?” his father said. “Your lip’s twice the size it should be!”

“I’ve had worse,” Tim said, and resolved to be extra careful to hide how sore his ribs were. “It barely hurts, honest.”

His father and Dana looked at each other over his head, in a way that Tim wasn’t supposed to see, let alone be able to interpret. _I’m not a child_ , he wanted to tell them, and bit down on the impulse. He wished he could tell his father, at least. It would be a terrible idea and result in him losing Robin immediately, but he wished he could tell anyway.

Breakfast was awkward. At least it was for Tim. His father had clearly told Dana about Tim’s interest in photography; they’d bought him a digital camera. A good one, too. Tim had saved up his allowance and bought the same model for himself two months ago. He still preferred traditional film and development techniques, but being Robin put a serious dent in the uninterrupted time he had to put into the hobby. Digital was fine too.

They tried. It was more than his father had done before. “Thanks, dad, Dana,” he said with the utmost sincerity. He’d put the one he’d bought himself into a drive for Christmas presents. Someone should get some use out of that camera, even if it was by reselling it.

When they were done exchanging presents by the tree, the conversation dried up. His father kept glancing at his lip, as if staring at it would tell him the truth of what happened.

Tim was grateful when his phone went off in his pocket, a few bars of a tinny pop song Steph had programmed in herself.

“Friend of mine,” he explained, and checked.

_hey timmy merry xmas xoxo_

He’d’ve been able to narrow it down to her or Dick from the refusal to capitalise alone. A second message buzzed through:

_you got any plans? Mom has a shift & i’m on my own_

_Let me check_ , he texted back. _Merry Christmas to you too._

“Dad, do you mind if I go out this afternoon?”

“What? Why?”

“A friend of mine’s on her own today,” he explained, relishing the opportunity to be totally honest. “Her mother’s a nurse, she’s working. They need the money, but…”

He wasn’t prepared for the guilt on his dad’s face. Of course. Tim’s father had left him alone every Christmas since Tim turned five until now. Eight Christmases. He didn’t know if Tim had Christmas traditions of his own and he certainly wasn’t a part of them. (Tim’s Christmas tradition, as it happened, was ordering takeaway and keeping the Christmas movie marathon on in the background while he organised his scrapbooks. The last part wasn’t a thing he could share.)

“You could ask her here,” Dana suggested. “We have enough food for four, don’t we, Jack?”

“That would work,” his father agreed. “Feel free to invite her over. Is she your girlfriend?”

“Just a friend,” Tim said. They’d tried dating for a few weeks, mostly because that was how boys were supposed to hang out with girls. Steph was really pretty, but they both liked just being friends better at the moment. “Can I really ask her over?”

His father and Dana shared yet another glance. “Go ahead, Tim,” his dad said.

This, Tim thought, could get complicated. “Excuse me,” he said, and retreated. He started heading to his room, but once he was out of sight, he headed up to the attic. Nobody would accidentally overhear him there. He took a deep breath and dialed.

Steph picked up almost immediately. “Timmy!” she said. “I wasn’t expecting you to call!”

“Neither was I,” he said. “Look, I’m not free, but my dad and Dana said you could come around for dinner if you liked.”

“Really?” she asked brightly. “I’d love to!”

“What are we going to tell them?” Tim paced anxiously along the length of the attic. “They’re going to ask _questions_. I’m still not used to this, you know. How we met - I can’t tell them you hit me in the face with a brick!”

Steph laughed. “Why not? It’s a good story.”

“Because I’m already lying to them about why I have a fat lip _today_ ,” he hissed back.

That sobered her up. It wasn’t hard to imagine how her smile must have almost fallen off her face. “What happened?”

“We found the Red Hood last night,” he told her. “He shot at me a few times and punched me in the face.”

“Ouch. The lip’s the worst of it, right?”

“Rib injuries. I can hide those. So how did we meet? The version that we can tell my dad?”

They were silent for a little while. As civilians, they really didn’t have much in common aside from absent parents. Civilian Steph was popular - if her school had a cheerleading program, she’d be in it - where civilian Tim was a nerd. Their theater programs and sport programs didn’t overlap, even if either of them participated.

“How about computer club? An inter-school meeting?” Tim asked after a minute’s thought. Steph knew quite a bit about hardware, thanks to her father. Less about software, but still more than enough to put a lot of high school computer club members to shame. She could easily sell that lie.

“It’ll have to do,” Steph said. “It’s not like your dad will be checking to see what _my_ extra-curriculars are. Is there anything else we want lies ready for?”

“We should be able to play it by ear. I hope.”

“In that case, what time do you want me there?”

He had no idea. The last proper Christmas dinner he’d had was when he was little. “Five?”

“Five it is. It’s a date. Not really.”

Steph being around would make Christmas a lot more fun. He’d just been thinking that he wished he could be more honest with his dad and Dana, and letting them know about at least one of his friends - the one they’d think was age-appropriate - would have to be enough. It still didn’t feel good, though.

Consistent lies were best, unless there was a thread to unravel the whole tangled mess.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks everyone for your patience and the feedback! Next post next week!
> 
>  
> 
> NEXT TIME:
> 
> While Dick had been preoccupied with his gift, Bruce had, without any prompting, picked up Amy. Dick’s firstborn was blinking curiously up at him, while Bruce in turn devoted his focus to her, apparently as confused as she was about her presence in his arms. The set of his shoulders said, quite clearly, if you mention this I will not appreciate it.


	7. A Time for Family

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A family moment, a decision, and a growing awareness that there is something wrong with Dick beyond shock and exhaustion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter contains mentions of vomit (at the very end), so emetophobics be warned.

Christmas at Wayne Manor did not begin until around noon. Bruce hadn’t really celebrated it after his parents died until he took Dick in. Dick had usually woken up early for Christmas when _his_ parents were alive, but his first Christmas morning in Wayne Manor he’d spent inconsolable for missing them. After that first year, there had been Batman-and-Robin habits keeping them both asleep until later. It had just become tradition.

This Christmas started with the babies waking up and howling for food. Dick fed them, before going back to sleep. When he woke up again, they needed feeding again, and changing as well. Children were a lot of work. It had only been what, four days? And Dick was already exhausted. It might have had as much to do with the shock as it did with the work.

Once they were changed and fed, Dick found himself looking down on his daughters. He kept trying. Two matching little girls, one in yellow and one in pink. He was sure he loved them. Paternal instinct, he supposed. He couldn’t help it. He just wished it wasn’t mixed with so much other stuff. What he felt about their mother, what he felt about himself, what he felt about the things that happened the day they were conceived. He wished he could bring himself to touch them more. He knew he didn’t deserve it.

But he did love them. If he had to, he would make himself love them.

“Merry Christmas,” he said. Bridget waved her fists and kicked, her tiny legs barely disturbing the blanket. Amy gurgled. Dick took it for festive approval.

It was nearly time for Christmas brunch. Alfred didn’t put a lot of energy into Christmas brunch, preferring to save his energies for dinner. They exchanged gifts with a pot of the best coffee he kept in the house - juice for Dick, until he’d turned fifteen - and a tray of croissants and fruit. How babies would figure into this tradition, Dick had no idea.

Bruce was already up by the time Dick managed to haul both daughters down to the living room they kept the tree in, mug of coffee in his hand. “Merry Christmas,” he said.

“You too,” Dick replied.

They lapsed into awkward silence. It hadn’t always been awkward. When Dick had been younger, and then there had been Jason, who might not have always been the easiest company to keep but was definitely distracting. Jason was dead, though, and there was a lot of elephant in the room. Two small babies. Just like an elephant.

After the silence had stretched out a while, Dick said, “I’m sorry.”

Bruce’s mouth and eyebrows set in the _I didn’t anticipate this_ expression Dick only saw rarely on his face. “It’s happened,” Bruce said. “They’re part of the family now.” His eyes flicked over to the tree. To Dick’s surprise, there was a small stack of presents there. “You had better open them. Your daughters won’t be able to do it themselves this year.”

That - was more than Dick had been expecting. Better. “If you insist,” he said, making sure his voice was light.

Bruce cleared his throat. “Your present first, though.” 

He handed over an envelope. Dick opened it. Registration papers for a car. Not a sports car, not a luxury car, just a nice, modest sedan that wouldn’t stand out too much anywhere. Exactly the sort of thing Dick had been saving for in his civilian life. Richard Grayson didn’t need high-performance vehicles all the time. Dick didn’t want them - and with two children, he needed something other than a motorcycle. “I - thank you. Thank you.”

“I got it before,” Bruce said awkwardly. While Dick had been preoccupied with his gift, Bruce had, without any prompting, picked up Amy. Dick’s firstborn was blinking curiously up at him, while Bruce in turn devoted his focus to her, apparently as confused as she was about her presence in his arms. The set of his shoulders said, quite clearly, _if you mention this I will not appreciate it._ Dick didn’t dare. He was walking on thin ice. He wasn’t going to risk his daughters’ acceptance with the closest thing to a grandfather they’d ever get in life. “You mentioned you wanted something practical…”

“I did. I do.” Only he’d planned to drive that nondescript car to work, rather than use it to drive his two children around in. “It’s perfect. Your present’s on the computer downstairs.” Bruce was impossible to buy for. The past few years Dick and Babs collaborated (this year, he had collaborated with Tim instead) and created extra backdoors into security agencies for his present. There was no buying for Bruce, but they could save Batman a bit of time and risk. Dick was competent hacker, but usually his role was to swindle an unsuspecting IT worker out of their passwords, to get Babs or Tim a level of access they could use to get Bruce a shortcut closer to the really juicy stuff.

“Hm. Who have you hacked into now?”

“Lexcorp R&D.”

Bruce blinked in pleased surprise, and Dick couldn’t help but feel a bit proud of himself. He wasn’t totally useless. He’d picked up that password while he was still undercover. “Thank you.” Amy started to squirm, and Bruce gave the baby a small smile. He’d smiled at Dick a bit like that, once. “Now, are you going to help your daughters with their presents?”

“Yeah,” Dick said, and went to the tree and its pile of presents, dragging Bridget’s carrier as he went. Amy looked happy enough where she was.

He unwrapped a pair of stuffed elephants half the size of each baby. One pink elephant, one yellow elephant. Bruce really was taking this colour-coding thing seriously. After placing said elephants in the appropriate carriers, snuggling the pink one down next to Bridget’s feet, he went back to the pile. More toys, none of them sharp or pointy or even choking hazards. Clothes. Pink and yellow. Bright shades, not pastel.

Until he got to the last package.

It was clothes again. He was getting used to the weight of tiny clothes in his hands, just like the weight of tiny people. He opened it, expecting to see more pink and more yellow. Instead, he saw - red and blue. Black and yellow. Superman and Batman.

“Bruce, what - you hate merchandise - “

“But you like it.”

He did. Very much. All the same, Amy and Bridget, the night they’d been conceived - he didn’t deserve to dress his children in those colours. “I can’t,” he said, familiar lump back in his throat, bowing his head over the neatly packaged onesies. “I _can’t_.”

Bruce pursed his lips and looked over at Dick. “Does this have something to do with their mother?”

“Sort of,” Dick said. He didn’t want to say it. He _couldn’t_ say it. He’d kept the secret so long. What happened to Blockbuster, what happened on the roof. Now Bruce was going to find out, because Dick couldn’t stand to touch a freaking Superman onesie.

But Bruce just frowned harder and said, “Dick, you can’t deny your daughters things because you feel you failed. I don’t mind. You know full well that Clark wouldn’t either.”

Clark. Clark would - no, he wouldn’t mind Dick dressing Amy or Bridget or both as him. Not even if he knew. Clark was just like that.

“When are you planning to tell Cass?” Bruce asked, mind on a similar track to Dick’s. “And your friends?”

Just thinking about it made him feel ill. Cass. Uncle Clark. Wally. Roy. _Babs_. They’d all _know_. 

“Dick. If - if it’s too much, you don’t have to raise them yourself.”

“No!”

Bruce’s words stung. Worse than stung. They opened up the old hurt from the Youth Detention Centre, ten years ago now. No social worker would send babies to juvie, not like they had Dick, that was something. “I can’t send them to foster care. I _can’t_ ,” he tried to explain, through the pounding in his chest. Without even thinking about it, he dragged Bridget’s carrier closer. “You know what they did to me. You think they’ll treat them any better, when they have a cop-killer for a mother as well? I can’t give them up, Bruce, I can’t, don’t ask me again, please.”

He held out his arms for Amy. He needed her now. Needed to know that Bruce wouldn’t take her from him.

Reluctantly, Bruce surrendered the baby. Dick caught the slight tensing of his neck as he resisted the urge to ask for the other. Despite his own panic, Dick knew that was a good sign. Bruce wanted them. “We have to talk about this,” Bruce said. “You are not well. This will affect your future. Your studies, your application to the police academy in a few years time, if you still want to do that. Your night work.”

He knew. How could he be Nightwing? How could he manage two children and the police academy? But it was hard to admit aloud. Hearing Bruce say it wasn’t any better. Dick had had _plans_ for the new year. Now that would all have to change.

Bruce said, “Dick, would you consider moving back to Gotham for the next few years?”

_No._

Or that was Dick’s immediate, visceral reaction anyway. He had wanted to escape Gotham, Bruce’s long shadow. The town wasn’t big enough for the two of them. Not anymore. He had _loved_ those first few months in Bludhaven, before everything went to hell. Doing his own laundry and his own cooking was a minor inconvenience well worth it for the freedom of working his own cases and earning his own money. If he decided to skip class, or skip patrol, or whatever, he didn’t have to explain it to anyone. He was the only one he’d disappoint with his choices.

That was what he’d thought, anyway.

Logic, however, trained into him by Bruce himself, begged him to reconsider. It wasn’t just himself he was deciding for. He had to think of what was best for his daughters. He had to _do_ what was best for his daughters. What happened if he got sick? What happened if _they_ got sick? When he needed babysitting? The distance made a difference.

“Back to the manor?” Dick asked tentatively. He _really_ didn’t want to move back to the manor. He didn’t think he could ever live in the same house as Bruce again, as much as he loved the man.

“Not if you don’t want. Just - Gotham. Closer to help, when you need it.”

When you need it. Not _if_. What hurt worse was knowing it was true.

“I’m in a position to support you financially. All three of you. If you will allow me to. Take the penthouse, if you don’t want to live in the manor.”

His mouth went dry. “That’s a hell of a Christmas present,” Dick said. Maybe if he treated it as a joke, Bruce would back off. He didn’t want to be supported. He thought he’d lost all his pride back in the stairwell. If not there, then the roof. If not _there_ , then he’d thought Slade had beaten it out of him.

Not so, apparently.

“It’s not a Christmas present. It’s part of my duty to you.”

No luck, then. Just duty. Why duty, _what_ duty? The guardianship had ended months ago, just after Blockbuster. “I’m not your son,” Dick said.

“You are family,” Bruce snapped. “I will look after you, as I expect you will look after your own daughters. Take the penthouse, Dick. Please.”

Ordered back to Gotham like an irresponsible child, albeit one with two children of his own. That said, having two children of his own was probably what had reduced him to that in Bruce’s eyes. _Pride second_ , Dick reminded himself. He hated using Bruce’s money without giving back anything in return. He wasn’t Bruce’s son, after all.

It would be - not easy, nothing would be easy with two children and no partner - but _easier_. 

Did he need the help?

Probably. He was so tired. After only a few days, even with Alfred's assistance, he was already exhausted and sick at heart. How would he keep this up? The effort to get up every few hours and feed them, to change them, to play with them. Sooner or later, if he was by himself, he'd crack in some way.

Should he take the help?

Faintly, he could remember the season before his family had come to Gotham. It had been a bad one. Everything they’d had had gone into maintaining the act. Even then, they hadn’t had enough money to afford the sort of diet they needed to stay in peak condition, and had to dial down the act, which in turn led to lower takings for them. He’d got no new clothing for several months, to the point where his sneakers were so battered they’d nearly been falling off his feet. When a stray branch hit the side window in the trailer’s cab during a storm, his dad had taped up the cracks instead of getting it fixed, and they’d lived with the leaks. His parents had been tense and argued a lot when they thought he couldn’t hear.

If he didn’t take help, that would be his daughters’ lives. Worse, without love of the trapeze to get him through. Just him, working hard at bad jobs, treading water. What remained of the trust fund Bruce had given him would run out quickly. For himself, maybe he could live with it. Other people did, without ever having the option to say the word and have a roof over their heads forever. But his girls…he did not want that for his girls.

He didn’t deserve the help. That was obvious. He didn’t deserve anything of Bruce’s, let alone the entire penthouse, especially while giving nothing back. But his daughters…Bruce was close, but he wasn’t their real grandfather. He was offering, because he was kind at heart. For them, he should accept.

“All right,” he said, defeated. “All right, I’ll take the penthouse.”

He’d managed to do one thing for Bruce, at least: the relief on his face was real and true.

 

—

 

Bruce insisted on holding Bridget, after Dick accepted the penthouse. It was only fair. He’d held Amy already, now he got to hold Bridget. The little Graysons had only been in the house for two days and they were worming into his affections as thoroughly as their father had. Perhaps it was genetic.

They were very pretty babies. Until now he’d never understood the appeal.

After he had held both grandchildren to his satisfaction, including helping to feed them, Bruce settled down with a tablet and the penthouse plans. One of the rooms would have to be redecorated, if it was going to serve as a nursery. The one closest to the master bedroom made sense. It would all have to be done discreetly, too. It had taken a lot of effort to distract the press after the series of attacks Blockbuster had made on Richard Grayson in March.

Whatever was particularly wrong with Dick - and Bruce knew there was _something_ \- public scrutiny could only make it worse. Tim would investigate what was wrong, and Bruce would make sure Dick and his children were taken care of. It would work out.

The lawyers hadn’t got back to him about custody rights. It was Christmas. Bruce couldn’t begrudge them the time with their families. If it weren’t for Dick’s unknown problem, Bruce would be quite content with his life right now. But Dick _did_ have a problem, and so that would need to be handled first.

Bruce gave Alfred his Christmas present - a set of lawn bowls, in aid of a hobby Alfred engaged in from time to time - with the news, “Dick will be moving back to Gotham.”

“Indeed?” Alfred said. “That is probably a prudent decision. Will he be taking up residence in the penthouse, or will you be purchasing him an apartment more to his own tastes?”

“The former. I don’t think he’d accept another new apartment.” It had been all Bruce could do to persuade him to accept a new apartment in Bludhaven, but he had wanted Dick safe for once. As safe as anyone could ever be in Bludhaven. “Could you arrange for decorators after New Year?”

“Certainly.”

He offered nothing more.

Bruce cracked. “It was _wrong_ , Alfred. I said ‘move back’ and he _agreed_. He only tried to make a joke of it once. It wasn’t like him at all. You should have seen his face when he opened what I got for the girls, he looked like someone had died. Dick loves merchandise, but he didn’t even unwrap it all the way, let alone insist that we change Bridget and Amy into it right away. It’s just - wrong.”

With a sigh, Alfred put down the case of bowls. “Master Bruce. Have you considered _asking_ him if anything beyond his sudden responsibilities is troubling him?”

He hesitated. Not really. That wasn’t how he did things. Alfred knew it.

“Master Bruce. It really is the simplest way to find out what’s wrong with him. Even if you fail at discovering the problem, you will succeed in letting him know your concern.”

“What if I hurt him worse by asking? He’s -“ he hesitated over the words, since they had _never_ applied to Richard Grayson before “- a bit fragile at the moment.”

“He has found himself suddenly responsible for two infant children. Their mother is not only unavailable to help him raise them, but a convicted murderer who knows his identity. All his plans to join the police have been disrupted. A certain amount of fragility is to be expected.”

Possibly, but Bruce knew his son. Even with all this, there should be more positivity. “He would have called Wally by now, at least. Probably Clark, too.” _He’s not happy and I don’t know how to fix it._ The more he thought, the more anxious he got. “Maybe I should investigate instead of Tim.”

“Not tonight,” Alfred said firmly. “Whatever else you do -“

He cut off immediately as Dick entered, yellow-clad baby in his arms, presenting a picture that took the wind out of Bruce. He didn’t know whether to go find a camera and capture the sight of his son staring down at a peacefully sleeping granddaughter in a more permanent form, or go over there and _make_ Dick stop looking so worried.

He was so young. Too young.

“Alfred?” Dick asked. “Where do you keep the cleaning stuff? Bri just puked all over herself and her carrier.”

“The large cupboard in the ground floor laundry holds the supplies you need, Master Richard,” Alfred said. “Master Bruce will keep an eye on Miss Amy while you clean.”

Bruce reached out for Amy. Infants took a lot of attention. Far more than eight-year-old Dick had, because while eight-year-old, freshly orphaned, traumatised Dick had needed comfort at odd hours, he came to Bruce able to feed, dress, and bathe himself, not to mention use a toilet. But he could say this much for more than a decade working on Gotham’s streets as a vigilante: no bodily secretion bothered him much anymore. Dick either.

Alfred gave him a long, searching look. “Troubles aside, I think I must find where I left my camera.”

The baby in Bruce’s arms, with her ink-black hair, brown-pink skin, and baby blue eyes, was very beautiful. A perfect match to her sister, once the vomit was cleaned off that sister, anyway. He was struck by the realisation that she wouldn’t be this small forever, much as he had been stricken, five years or so ago, that Dick would not be a little boy forever.

“I think so, yes,” Bruce said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you very much for the feedback. Next chapter will be up in a week - and I will FINALLY be including some female characters.
> 
>  
> 
> NEXT TIME:
> 
> This was probably the weirdest civilian hangout Steph had ever planned with Tim. She didn’t know much about his family - he didn’t talk about his father or stepmother much. Mostly when he talked about people family-like, he talked about Batman, Nightwing, and Batgirl. It didn’t take the world’s greatest detective to work out why that might be. Sometimes she thought Tim was the loneliest kid she’d ever known.


	8. Three Families

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Three families, three dinners, and hardly anyone enjoys them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One additional warning for the emotional abuse inflicted on Tim. As always, mind the tags.

The time difference between Gotham and Hong Kong was twelve hours, making it so early on Christmas morning that Cass still wouldn’t have gone to bed on Christmas Eve, even though Bruce kindly held off on calling until after Dick had cleaned Bridget up. Sure enough, she accepted Bruce’s video call - in her pyjamas and a… _distinctive…_ hat, smiling broadly.

Dick managed to smile back, though he had no illusions about his ability to fool his newest sibling’s frighteningly perceptive gaze. Bruce asked, “What _are_ you wearing?”

“Santa hat,” Cass said. “Steph said. Merry Christmas, Bruce, Dick, Alfred.” One of them must have twitched wrong, though, because her smile vanished and she asked, “Is something wrong?”

He didn’t need to be a master of interpreting body language to notice Bruce’s eyes sliding over to him. “Nothing’s _wrong_ ,” Bruce said. “There’s just…news.”

News was putting it mildly. Dick took a deep breath. He could do this. Cass was his sister. She’d have to learn sometime that she was now Auntie Cass, and he’d resigned himself to everyone finding out everything eventually. Of all the family, in fact, she was the least likely to disapprove. Dick carefully held Bridget up for the camera.

The reaction he got wasn’t the one he’d been expecting. Cass immediately started smiling again, and reached out towards her own screen. “She is beautiful,” she said. “Very small. Her name?”

Dick told her, and then repeated the process for Amy.

“Two!” Cass said, apparently delighted. “How old?”

“Four days.”

She clapped her hands together. “I will come back,” she said. “Before New Year. I would like to see in person. And hug her.” Cass nodded decisively, the motion sending the tail of her Santa hat swaying. “Babies need hugs.”

Everyone got his baby girls presents but him, it seemed. There was still a long list of things he needed to buy, none of it very Christmas present-like. Preoccupied, he only vaguely registered Cass asking about Tim, and Bruce telling her he’d got a few nasty bruises “playing” the night before, but was otherwise all right. They never talked business on house lines. Who knew what might be going on in earshot of Cass’ connection?

More than almost anything, he wanted to tuck Amy or Bridget into his arms, the other beside him, in full view of their Auntie Cass. Dick ached to touch them just for the sake of touching them. He needed it. Unfortunately, as he’d told their mother, he was poisonous. The best thing he could do for them was to leave the hugging to better people. Like Cass. Tim, Alfred. Bruce, if he was willing.

“May I see Bridget and Amy again?” Cass asked.

“Of course,” Dick said.

He had only ever seen Cass smile more on the day her adoption papers came through. “When did you find out?” she asked.

“The day they were born. They were healthy, so I could take them home from…I could take them home right away.”

“Their mother?”

The question he was going to learn to hate even more than he already did. “Can’t take care of them.” _Don’t ask any more, Cass_. Most likely to understand. Most likely to _see_. He didn’t know which he would rather his family knew less - the stairwell or the rooftop. “It’s just going to be me. And Bruce and Alfred and Uncle Tim and Aunt Cass of course.”

“You will be a good father,” Cass said, rock steady. “I will try to be a good aunt.”

He knew she could see his throat working subtly around his inability to reply. He couldn’t help it. First Bruce, now Cass. They didn’t know how bad he had to fail for the girls to even be born. Though Bruce, at least, knew how stupid he’d been. He should have pushed Tarantula off him, but at the time he couldn’t. He just couldn’t. He’d just…let her. 

No, he shouldn’t even be thinking like that. If he’d pushed Tarantula off him, he wouldn’t have Amy and Bridget. How would they feel if they knew Dick wished he’d never even _met_ their mother? If, when, if they found out what had happened to bring them into the world?

“Dick?” Cass asked. Bruce was frowning at him too. 

“I’m sorry,” he said. “It’s a big change, I’m exhausted. They might be asleep now, but they get noisy when they wake up. Bri puked on everything not long ago for no reason, and I’m already looking forward to when they’re potty trained -“

He cut himself off as Bruce put a hand on his shoulder, just for a second. Gestures like that were rare from him. “Alfred and I will look after him,” Bruce said to Cass. “Hurry home and you can too. And see the babies.”

“Before New Year,” Cass promised. “Business here can wait. This is more important.”

 

—

 

This was probably the weirdest civilian hangout Steph had ever planned with Tim. She didn’t know much about his family - he didn’t talk about his father or stepmother much. Mostly when he talked about people family-like, he talked about Batman, Nightwing, and Batgirl. It didn’t take the world’s greatest detective to work out why that might be. Sometimes she thought Tim was the loneliest kid she’d ever known.

Not so much anymore. Steph wouldn’t let him. But even then, they mostly only got to see each other in costume, because their civilian lives were so far apart. To go spend Christmas, and stay for dinner, with his dad, that was…weird. Nice of them to offer, and she wasn’t going to turn down the offer of actual _food_. That’d just be daft.

Steph made sure to brush her hair and put on her nicest clothes. She hadn’t been expecting a trip to the fancy part of town. Sweatpants and a ponytail weren’t going to cut it. Her nicest blouse probably wasn’t nice enough by the standards of the people the Drakes spent time with. Not that she had a wide selection. Oh well. She looked pretty good almost no matter _what_ she wore.

The buses were quiet on Christmas Day. They got her most of the way to the Drakes’ house no fuss. But because it was a fancy area of town, there was still a ways to walk. At least it wasn’t snowing.

She’d gone about a block when a guy on a motorcycle pulled up next to her. A cute guy, she saw, as he took off his helmet. Black hair and blue eyes like Tim. Not quite her type - he was broader and more muscly than she liked, but very cute all the same. Also too old for her, maybe about twenty, and he looked _really_ tired. There were up-all-night and up-all- _last_ -night shadows under his pretty eyes. “Need some company?” he asked. “It’s cold out.”

“No thanks,” Steph said, because even if he _was_ hot and she was a kickass vigilante, she knew better than to walk somewhere with a strange man. “Offer was nice though.”

“Fair enough.” He didn’t press, just sped off in the same direction she was going without looking back. Decent of him to offer, and good of him not to keep trying when she said no. A nice guy. Steph still waited until he was out of sight before she kept walking. Strangely enough, the guy ended up parked a few houses down from Tim’s.

All these nice houses could really get to a girl raised in a crappy apartment block. They felt like they were towering over her more than skyscrapers ever could, snow-covered hedges somehow oppressively botanical. They muffled noise, Steph realised. Sound in the city itself echoed. And that was when she could hear the echoes, instead of old lady Jenkins the apartment above them listening to _Wheel of Fortune_ at top volume.

She summoned up her courage, walked down the long, long driveway to Tim’s door, and knocked.

Tim opened the door. Knowing him, she’d bet he watched her coming. Actually, he’d probably looked up her bus’s timetable and predicted when she’d get to the door as well. “Hey, Steph.”

“What happened to _you_?” she asked immediately, because _wow_ his lip looked _terrible._ Worse than she’d thought. Geez. What’d he get hit with, a brick? That was _her_ thing.

“Fell down the stairs,” Tim said.

Seriously, he was going with that? There was no way Tim had fallen down the stairs. People trained by The Bat Man did not simply _fall down_. But they weren’t alone, Tim’s parents didn’t know about the Bat-training, and ‘I feel down some stairs’ wasn’t the _worst_ lie in the world. “Yikes,” she said, with the best sympathy she could muster. “Trip over your own feet?”

“Something like that.”

For the benefit of Mr Tim’s Dad, Steph said, “Aww, you’ll stop being clumsy eventually.” She smiled and followed Tim inside.

His stepmother smiled at her as she came in. She was a nice, normal-seeming brunette with laugh lines already forming around her brown eyes. Man, Tim was so screwed if they found out what he did at night. Her mom could probably handle her sneaking out - she wouldn’t _like_ it, but she knew what Steph’s dad was like, she’d probably understand - but wow, Tim’s dad and stepmom were white bread. 

This impression did not fade as they put a modest roast turkey down on the table for their Christmas dinner. And the roast vegetables. And then she saw their tree. No zany ornaments there. It would look right at home in a department store.

So. Screwed. Nice rich boys like Tim weren’t supposed to sneak around and hang out on rooftops in the nastier parts of Gotham, or get into fistfights, much less in kevlar. Hell, she wasn’t sure nice rich boys like Tim were supposed to _care_ with his sort of intesity. It wasn’t genteel. Or something like that.

“So Tim tells us you met at a computer club,” Mr Drake said. Yep, they’d called that question. It only made sense. Tim says he’s friends with a strange girl whose path he should not logically cross, would-be responsible parents start asking how that even happened.

“Uh-huh,” Steph said. She tossed her hair, even knowing it made the whole ’stupid blonde’ impression stronger. “A few months ago. He’s really good with them. I’m not so good, but I won’t improve if I don’t try, right?”

“And Tim says your mother’s a nurse?” Mrs Drake asked.

“At Lower Gotham General, yeah. Tim said you’re a physiotherapist, Mrs Drake?”

Mrs Drake laughed a little. “Oh, it’s Dana, please. Yes, I’m a physiotherapist. I’ve worked in a hospital long enough to know all about inconvenient shifts. I’m glad we can make sure you’re not alone today.”

Steph smiled back at her. Dana might be almost aggressively normal, but she was still nice about it. “I called my mom and _she’s_ happy I’m not alone today, so it all works out.”

Tim didn’t seem to be much like his dad at all, Steph thought as the meal continued. Mr Drake was mild-mannered, easy-going, and generally happy to let Dana run the conversation. She wondered what Tim’s mom had been like, if she had been more focused and driven. More like Tim. Mr Drake and Dana didn’t seem to actually know much about Tim, either. She was ninety percent sure they hadn’t realised he was acting and that his ribs were absolutely killing him.

She palmed him some painkillers halfway through the meal. Her torso ached just looking at him.

Eventually, they offered to drive her home. She’d stayed later than she intended, and public transport on Christmas night…not good. She accepted. “You don’t have to take me all the way,” she said, when they were mostly there and the traffic was starting to pick up.

“Nonsense,” Dana said. “We invited you. It wouldn’t be very considerate to just leave you stranded at our place.”

“It’s no trouble,” Mr Drake assured her.

Steph glanced at Tim. Tim shrugged minutely. _Sorry, I don’t know why my parents are paying attention._ “All right,” Steph said. She didn’t live in the _really_ crappy part of Gotham, just the pretty crappy part. The Drakes should be fine to drive through. They dropped her off, she thanked them, and she headed up to her room to get changed into her Spoiler gear.

She wondered if she’d see Robin out there tonight.

 

—

 

Once Steph was gone, Tim’s dad said, “She seemed nice.”

“She is nice,” Tim said. She was also whole bunch of other things he couldn’t tell his dad about. Good at punching. Insanely persistent. Upbeat in almost any situation. Filling in any more detail would require filling in too much detail.

“I wouldn’t have thought she was the computer club type, though,” his dad added.

“People say that about her a lot,” Tim said. He wasn’t sure how _he_ felt about her being a vigilante. He saw why she’d want to get involved, what with her dad and all. He admired her for it. It was just that she had so much less training, so much less in the way of resources. Maybe he should ask Bruce if he’d be willing to give her at least a bit more training.

Because Steph wasn’t going to stop being Spoiler. Insanely persistent. She was _never_ going to stop just because someone told her to. 

“Penny for your thoughts, Tim?”

“What? Oh, nothing.”

His father’s eyes in the rearview mirror were concerned. “Is your lip hurting? You’ve been very quiet.”

“Yeah,” Tim said, honest for once. That said, even that had a lie in it. His ribs hurt more than his lip, even after the painkiller.

“Did you not want us to invite your friend over?”

“It’s all right.”

He was so _sick_ of this. Conversations with his dad and Dana that went nowhere because he couldn’t let them get anywhere. Empty, meaningless reassurances. Hiding or lying about his injuries. Maybe Bruce was fine with living a double life, but Tim was increasingly unsure whether he could manage it. When Bruce and Dick went home, they could be themselves. Tim couldn’t. Tim lied all the time, practically 24/7. Only in those few minutes in the Cave at the start and finish of patrol could he really be himself, both Tim and Robin.

What he really wanted to tell them about Steph was stuff like the time she’d nailed a crook in the back of the head with a kid’s baseball from a rooftop away, then went and found the baseball so the kid could have it back. Or what happened a few weeks ago when they cleared up the Riddler’s idea of a haunted house together. (He’d helped her with some of the clues, since she was too used to how her dad thought; she had schooled him in homemade bomb disposal.) He’d rarely had that much fun as Robin.

He suspected they’d only hear the word ‘bomb.’ Maybe ‘the Riddler.’ Either way they’d never understand. He wished they would _understand_.

The silence dragged on, until his father said, “Tim, I know that I haven’t been there for you a lot over the years. Probably too often.”

There was no _probably_ about it, as far as Tim was concerned. He hadn’t realised until recently that his parents being away so often before he was ten was at all unusual. Now he knew it was. Steph’s mom, for instance, even working crazy shifts, somehow managed to spend more time with Steph than his parents had with him. He didn’t hold the time his father had spent at the hospital recovering against him; how could he? Just the years before that.

He said nothing.

“It’s going to change,” Jack Drake said determinedly. “I swear to you, Tim, it’s going to change. I’m going to be there for you. And it’ll be different, for a while, but we’ll get there. You’ll see.”

_We’ll get where?_ Tim wondered. He didn’t bother saying it aloud. It wouldn’t change. It never did.

And if it did, it might even be _worse_.

 

—

 

Somehow, Barbara’s father had got the day off from work to spend Christmas with her. She didn’t know how, but she sure knew why. He didn’t want her to be alone, not after last year, when he’d been called out to deal with Scarecrow throwing fear gas around in the city centre, leaving her alone in the hospital for most of the day. 

She had been in the hospital last year. So this was her first official Christmas in the wheelchair. _And not the last_. She would have many, many more Christmases in the chair than out of it. The thought still made her _furious_.

When she heard her doorbell, she sighed. No time to straighten up the couch cushions she’d thrown around in her frustration - not the first time that happened, the tantrum or the lack of time to fix it. Everything took so damn long now, cleaning her apartment and cooking a meal and everyday personal grooming. “Coming!” she yelled.

At least she had the time to straighten her hair.

“Hey, sweetheart,” her dad said, when she opened the door. “Merry Christmas.”

“Merry Christmas, Dad.” She accepted the hug and kiss, before rolling backwards to let him in. The hallway of her apartment was wide enough for her chair, but not wide enough for her chair and another person next to her. She’d looked into getting it adjusted, only to discover widening the hall would narrow her bathroom to the point it would become unusable in her current condition. “What type of takeout did you want tonight?” she asked.

Takeout. Another treat. At least she’d already been used to a strict diet.

“Indian will do fine.”

“Indian it is.”

Ever since her mom and dad had divorced, Christmas had been exactly this sort of unglamorous. Barbara was fine with that, especially compared to the two Christmases _before_ her parents had divorced. Those had been unpleasant. This arrangement suited her much better. Except for the damn chair.

“Want a drink?” she asked. “I bought _apple juice!_ ” She tried to make it sound as appealing as _scotch!_ Her dad liked a scotch on holidays. Cop or not, after Barbara turned fifteen, he’d sometimes poured her a small amount for herself on special occasions. This year, however, her psychiatrist had told her in no uncertain terms that she was not to mix her antidepressants with alcohol. So her apartment was now completely dry.

“Apple juice sounds great.”

Barbara poured and served. She could hear the kids upstairs thumping around, running back and forth between their Christmas tree and their parents. She didn’t know why she was feeling the envy today of all days, but she was.

She gave her dad a new summer coat, out of season, but she knew he needed one. Even in summer, Gotham sometimes got vicious storms and uncomfortably cold winds. “It’s nice,” her father said approvingly. “Did you get the money freelancing?”

“Yep,” Barbara confirmed. Her other activities aside, that was how she earned her keep now. Working retail wasn’t a good option anymore. “Just a bit of cybersecurity work.”

Her father’s mustache quivered slightly. She thought it was pride. She hoped it was pride. She _knew_ he’d be impressed if she could tell him about the job she was starting next week. Approving, no, but impressed. Barbara could hardly wait herself, but she’d promised. New year, new start.

New name. Oracle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for all your feedback! Next chapter will be up next week!
> 
>  
> 
> NEXT TIME:
> 
> Bruce had not forgotten about the issue of the Red Hood. Not by a long shot. With Robin in Bludhaven and Nightwing safely in the cave making himself useful with equipment maintenance and background investigation, now was his opportunity to investigate without putting them at risk.


	9. Detective Work

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Batman and Robin investigate their separate cases.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pretty sure the main tags cover everything this chapter.

Bludhaven was not a very nice place. The entire city seemed to be decaying, dying the slow rusty death of a whaling town that turned to asbestos for salvation. The skyline was heavy on unused smokestacks and now-shabby seventies office buildings; there was hardly a straight street to be found until you reached the suburbs; and the clouds rolled in low and ominous over the polluted harbour.

Dick - Nightwing - loved it. Tim didn’t understand why.

Especially since, in return for Nightwing’s honest devotion, Bludhaven had broken him. That was grounds for resentment in Tim’s book.

Tim knew the _what_ of what had happened in March, but very little about the  _why_ or the  _how_. He knew Bludhaven’s major crime lord, Blockbuster, had declared all-out war on Nightwing-slash-Dick Grayson, having apparently discovered the big secret. How, Tim didn’t know. Blockbuster had hired Firefly to destroy Haly’s Circus and attacked the college Dick studied at part-time, before finally blowing up his entire apartment block.

All in all, it had cost Dick about forty friends, neighbours, colleagues and family. On top of Barbara dumping him just days before everything hit the fan.

Blockbuster had turned up dead two days after Dick’s apartment was bombed, shot through the head in a seedy motel. Three other people in the same motel (which had since gone out of business for obvious reasons) had also been shot there that night, all with different guns, and the police investigation had been royally botched. None of the murderers, if indeed they were different people, had been brought to justice.

It was a mystery. Contrary to popular belief, Tim did not like mysteries. However, he had enough on his plate trying to figure out what exactly had turned Dick into a shell of his usual cheerful self at exactly the wrong time.

The first port of call had to be Sergeant Amy Rohrbach. Of all the police officers in Bludhaven, Dick had chosen her to work with. Tim - Robin - headed towards the Bludhaven PD to wait for an opportunity to get the Sergeant alone. A note slipped onto her desk ensured she headed for the roof, where Robin lurked in wait, in the dark and the damp, biting cold of the Bludhaven night.

Sergeant Rohrbach was familiar enough with Nightwing to look up for him, and then around behind her when she didn’t see anyone. Robin debated the merits appearing on her like Batman did with Gordon, but decided against it. It seemed disrespectful, especially for a first meeting.

“Here,” he said.

Her gaze immediately snapped up towards him. “You’re not Nightwing,” she said.

“No. Robin.”

The woman Dick had named his firstborn child for had dark, shrewd eyes. She was a clean Bludhaven cop - a clean sergeant, a female sergeant - Robin knew enough about police to know that none of these things would be possible if Amy Rohrbach was a fool. “You his brother?”

“Close,” Robin said.

Sergeant Rohrbach nodded. “Is he all right? I haven’t seen him since before Christmas.”

“He’s well enough.”

“He goes missing now when he's been out almost every night since he reappeared in October. Now you tell me he's _well enough_. That doesn’t sound like _well_.”

Robin suppressed a sigh. “He’s been better, sergeant. I’ve actually come here to ask about some of his dealings earlier in the year.”

If anything, those dark eyes grew harder. “The incidents in March?”

“Yes.” A thought struck him. As far as the police were concerned, Blockbuster had been targeting _Dick Grayson_. (Bruce had made and partially hidden a paper trail showing that Dick had purchased property Blockbuster had an interest in, ruthlessly exterminating any connection between Dick and Nightwing he could find.) “So you know his civilian identity?”

“What happens if I do?”

“He’ll vouch for you. He…made a statement.” _Amy_ Grayson. “I’ll be asked to report whether you’re a security risk as well. His word counts for more than mine.” At worst, Bruce dropped by to try to intimidate her. More likely, he’d look at her track record, nine months or more of complete silence, and leave her alone.

Sergeant Rohrbach said, cautiously, “You hear things when you go for a drink just off shift. One of the kids who used to work behind the cop bar, a lot of the guys rated him highly. He knew the best way to earn a tip was just to listen. Maxine Michaels noticed the same thing, when she wasn’t ogling his behind.”

There was a slightly tense silence, and Sergeant Rohrbach added, “But he’s just a kid. Wouldn’t be old enough to drink across the river where you come from. Probably gone back to college.”

Damn. Batman was not going to be pleased to hear about this. He made a mental note to look into Maxine Michaels - a familiar name, but Robin couldn’t place it straight away. Still, it would make some things in Bludhaven much easier. “Right, to business. Sergeant, what do you know about the vigilante Tarantula?”

“ _Tarantula_?” Sergeant Rohrbach asked. “Her? In jail. Rightly so.”

“Before that?”

“First appeared in Bludhaven around July last year. Beat up some gangbangers, shot one or two non-fatally, probably shot a few more fatally but we never managed to prove it, didn’t look like much of a threat, or anywhere near Nightwing’s level of ability.”

Robin snorted. Batman’s notes on Tarantula’s capabilities included the phrase _capable, but lacking in discipline_. In a physical fight, that just wasn’t going to stand up to the talented and also disciplined Nightwing. It was also unlikely she had anything remotely like his acrobatic skills.

“It went like that for a few months. Occasionally we got reports of Nightwing working _with_ Tarantula. Something happened between them about this time last year. Got a report of the two of them having an argument on a rooftop, and that was the end of any team-ups as far as I know.”

“Chief Redhorn was murdered in January, correct?”

“Correct. That was Tarantula’s work. Scaled the outside of the BPD and came in through the window. Nightwing was the one who found the mark her suction cup left on the window.”

“There was no suggestion he was involved?”

“None,” Sergeant Rohrbach said, hesitated slightly, and then added, “Not in Redhorn’s murder.”

The implication was clear.

_What?_

Tim bit back the desire to protest. Dick wasn’t a murderer. He hadn’t killed anyone. Wouldn’t kill anyone. Not Dick. “What do you mean?” he asked Sergeant Rohrbach, voice steady. Robin knew how criminals gossiped. Criminals and police.

Sergeant Rohrbach huddled into her winter jacket, the most vulnerable by far Robin had yet seen her. She looked as though she was debating telling him. “Nightwing was there when Blockbuster was killed,” she said at last. Her voice was steady, in spite of her hunched shoulders. “The cameras were out in that stairwell, but there were a few witness statements that put him at the scene, fighting with Blockbuster.

“I lost those statements.”

Robin sucked in a breath. It was a staggeringly blunt admission. Batman and Robin had both considered corruption as a likely explanation for the inadequacy of the investigation into Blockbuster’s murder, but corruption to protect Nightwing? “Do you think he did it?” Robin asked.

Silence again. Robin could hear sparse traffic on the street, two cops in the office below arguing, a helicopter passing overhead. “I don’t know,” Sergeant Rohrbach said at last. “I saw him a few hours before. He was beat to hell, a real mess, and not just physically. You could hear it in his voice. If he was ever going to kill someone…”

Tim tried to imagine it. He’d lost his mother, but he had his dad, now a stepmother, he had the Titans on occasion, he had some friends at school. He had a house and a school and a routine. How would it feel to see them destroyed by someone targeting _him_? His friends and family dead, to get to _him_?

Even Robin balked at imagining that.

“If he did do it, don’t you dare judge him,” Sergeant Rohrbach said abruptly. “There’s not a court in the state that wouldn’t let him off for self-defence.”

“It’ll never get that far, thanks to you,” Robin said. He wasn’t sure whether his thanks were entirely sincere. Jim Gordon told half-truth after half-truth to protect Batman, but actively sabotaging an ongoing investigation? He’d never done that, as far as Robin was aware.

Sure enough, Sergeant Rohrbach narrowed her eyes at him, her chin tilting up stubbornly. It reminded Tim a bit of Dick himself. “You know how I met Nightwing, Robin? He saved my life when my own colleagues tried to have me killed. He saved my husband’s life. He saved the lives of my _children_. I saw him put himself between me and Deathstroke _three times_. Making sure he doesn’t go down for Blockbuster’s murder, whether or not he committed it, doesn’t make us close to even. I can protect him from this much.”

He wasn’t going to change her mind. Robin wasn’t even sure he should try to. “Is there anyone else who might know something?” he asked, wanting to get off the topic of Nightwing and murders.

Sergeant Rohrbach blinked. “Haven’t you talked to him? Tarantula was there that night as well. I thought you knew.”

 

—

 

The trip back seemed very long. Tim was relieved when he saw the lights of Gotham again on the highway, and even more relieved as he drove his motorcycle through the familiar streets. Sometimes he thought it was strange, how now he felt so safe even in some of the worst places Gotham had to offer. Just last year he would have thought twice about coming down this road at this hour. In daylight, as Tim Drake, he would think twice about coming down this road.

But Robin? Robin just had to be a bit careful, and there was nowhere he couldn’t go.

He couldn’t lie to himself about this. He _loved_ not being anywhere near so afraid. He loved knowing that, _at least_ , he could make a good fight of it if anyone tried to hurt him.

Dick had told him once that being Robin was like that. It was easy to understand how the older boy had found the courage to do some of the stunts he did now that he was the one with the R on his chest.

 _Talk to Nightwing_. It was one of only two options he had to find out what happened to Roland Desmond - which, Tim was now pretty certain, was the primary thing distressing Dick. Sergeant Rohrbach had made her position very clear. She did not know, she did not want to know, she only cared inasmuch as the events had affected Nightwing, and she would make sure the Bludhaven police didn’t get their hands on him. A clean cop, by Bludhaven’s standards. It really was a very different place to Gotham these days.

He didn’t _have_ to ask Nightwing. He could go to Lockhaven and ask Tarantula. (Robin could go _anywhere_.) That, however, was a big risk. After he was finished his interrogation, he couldn’t guarantee that Tarantula would keep quiet. It could leave an official trail.

It was safer for them all, simpler, and easier to ask Nightwing.

Tim had a theory about what happened. He still didn’t think that Nightwing would have killed anyone, even Blockbuster. It was more likely, _much_ more likely, that Tarantula had done that. But he would be surprised if Dick hadn’t witnessed it.

This was tying his head in knots. It was awful to see someone killed. He hadn’t been Robin all that long and he knew that. He’d seen mundane shootings; he’d seen Killer Croc bite a woman’s arm off and failed to stop her from bleeding to death; he’d seen the Joker gas three of his minions and hadn’t been able to do anything but watch from above with the civilians he was smuggling out of the building. He’d talked about it with Dick all of two weeks after he officially started the job, and back then Dick hadn’t hesitated to admit that it _always_ hurt to fail someone.

Dick had also been honest with Tim in telling him that on the job there would be people he would want to kill, and people whose deaths wouldn’t affect him as much as others. At the time he’d mentioned the man who had killed his parents. Surely Blockbuster, who had killed a great many of the civilians Dick interacted with on a regular basis, would be in the same category as Tony Zucco and the Joker. He was having trouble understanding why Dick would feel bad from seeing _Blockbuster_ killed.

Maybe that just said something about Tim himself.

“A fruitful evening, Master Timothy?” Alfred asked, when Tim pulled in.

“I think so,” Tim said. “Where are Bruce and Dick?”

“Master Bruce is still out,” Alfred said. “Master Richard is upstairs at the moment. Alas, one of his daughters had a slight accident and needs a change of clothing.”

Tim wrinkled his nose. That part of looking after the babies, he was more than happy to let Dick handle. “I can’t stay,” he said. Every time he came back from patrol he had to rush to shower and sneak back in. He might have been wrong, actually. Robin could go anywhere, except the house Jack Drake owned.

More and more he found that he didn’t actually want to go back.

 

—

 

Bruce had not forgotten about the issue of the Red Hood. Not by a long shot. With Robin in Bludhaven and Nightwing safely in the cave making himself useful with equipment maintenance and background investigation, now was his opportunity to investigate without putting them at risk. 

The few days between Christmas and New Year’s Eve were busy in any case, as the goods stolen on Christmas and the following day were moved out and the drugs desired for New Year’s Eve and the associated revelry were moved in. The Red Hood had fingers in that second pie. He and his various ‘employees’ would be working tonight.

Batman had built up a decent profile of the Red Hood’s drug trafficking activities over the past few weeks, before the incident with Robin. It was heavy on party drugs, the sorts taken to make a night out more enjoyable, rather than the sorts taken to numb the pain of existence. There was one known case of a young man using those party drugs to spike a woman’s drink and then rape her; the case was known because the Red Hood did not approve of people misusing what he supplied. One bullet, right between the eyes, with a neatly typed note pinned to the corpse explaining the reasoning. Another man, a suspected dealer, had been murdered the same way and dumped outside a school superintendent’s house. The note in that case had explained that the man had been dealing to students.

The signal was lit on the roof of the GCPD. He would ask if Gordon knew anything, aside from their usual pre-New Year discussions.

The rest of the Red Hood’s criminal activities, he was less eager to share with Gordon. Some crimes committed by his organisation were placed very precisely in his patrol path, daring him to take note. Other work, such as meetings with rivals and allies, never took place within convenient range of that path.

The Red Hood was either very observant, familiar with him, or both. These were worrying qualities at the most peaceful of times.

There were no small fish scattered in his path tonight, Batman was glad to note as he made his way across the city. “Anything?” Batman asked, just in case.

“Nothing’s coming up,” Nightwing said. “You’re clear to shake down whoever you like.”

“Acknowledged.”

He headed in the direction of the GCPD. Gordon sometimes put the signal up for less urgent matters, just so it _was_ up and the people of Gotham could see that it was up. As he went, he spotted Spoiler - Stephanie Brown - on a rooftop nearby, peering over the edge.

Batman changed course. Robin had warned him, several times, that Spoiler would not be stopping her vigilante activities on his say-so. He had observed her in action three times, and seen that she was talented and determined for himself. He knew she was getting some informal, irregular advice from Robin. Still, she was not trained to an extent where he would allow her on the streets, if it was up to him.

He did not hide his approach. Spoiler noticed him only after a minute, and waved when she did. Her mask covered her mouth, but the way her uncovered eyes crinkled suggested a smile. “Hi, Batman!” she greeted him. It was not the sort of greeting he usually received, to say the least.

Rather than return her greeting, he got a look over the street she was surveying. Nobody there.

“How’s Robin?” she asked. “Last time I saw him he looked pretty sore.”

“Robin is recovering well,” he said. She was Robin’s friend; she was naturally concerned; and if Robin were here instead of him he’d tell her.

Spoiler’s eyes tilted further in a broader, hidden smile. “Awesome,” she said happily, before what little was visible of her face became more serious. “Cluemaster’s associates all say the Red Hood’s still out there. I was keeping an eye out, since I know they’re trying to source some chemicals from him to smuggle into Blackgate.”

Beneath the cowl, Batman raised his eyebrows. He hadn’t heard that, but then again, he didn’t have the same sources Spoiler had. The things spilled to Batman under threat of a beating were not the same as the things carelessly discussed in front of Arthur Brown’s pretty blonde teenage daughter. “What chemicals?”

“Given that all the big name baddies are in Arkham or Blackgate at the moment, nothing out of the ordinary,” she said. “Haven’t heard anything about any breakouts in the works.”

“There’ll be one eventually,” Batman growled.

“Yeah,” Spoiler agreed, but perked right up again. “Probably not before New Year though. We might actually have some fun this year! Ugh, do _all_ of Gotham’s villains hate holidays?”

Spoiler was too young to remember the Calendar Man, thankfully. “Dent is usually quiet between the 21st of December and the 2nd of February,” he told her. “The Joker likes Christmas, New Year, and especially April Fools’ Day; Scarecrow, Halloween. The Penguin and Black Mask don’t change activity based on the date. Poison Ivy objects to Arbor Day, since she thinks trees should be honoured every day.” It was too soon to tell the Red Hood’s major preferences, beyond his grudge against Batman and Robin.

“Why not the 22nd?” Spoiler asked, referring back to Dent. “More twos. Two-Face likes those, right? Being in the name and all.”

“He prefers two twos and bilateral symmetry. He’ll spend weeks gearing up for crimes to be committed on those days. The 20th of February is also a high-risk date.”

“Gotcha. Quality, not quantity.”

There was movement on the street below them. Three men, only one of them under six foot tall. One of them was armed with a gun, based on the way his jacket bunched under his arm. “Hey, these are my guys now!” Spoiler said. “I’ll see you later, Batman. Thanks for telling me about Robin.”

He shook his head as she swung off the roof and into the gunman, knocking him over, before throwing down a smoke bomb to cover a tactical retreat and an advance from a different angle. Spoiler needed more practice and better smoke pellets. He stayed back until he was sure she had the fight under control, then proceeded on his way. He’d kept Gordon waiting long enough.

The smell of cigarette smoke drifted down from the GCPD roof as Batman approached. He swung himself up as Gordon turned away to stub out the butt, and waited for him to turn around.

Gordon jumped. “Every damn time,” he muttered.

“Sorry to keep you waiting,” Batman said. “What do you have for me?”

“What do you know about the Red Hood?” Gordon asked.

“An up-and-coming drug dealer,” Batman said, “Robin and I had an encounter with him on Christmas Eve. He is…entirely capable…in a fight.”

Gordon sighed. “Some of my officers are hearing that he’s after you personally.”

If that was so, it was Robin that the Red Hood wanted first, but he dared not say that to Gordon. Gordon knew better than most people in Gotham that there had been three Robins, and Batman knew he suspected the second had been killed. He had never fully approved of Robin in general from the very beginning. “He knows my methods,” Batman said. “He is currently top priority.”

“Good,” Gordon said. “Because the other rumour is that he’s ordering in explosives.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks everyone for all the feedback you've left! The next chapter will be up in a week, as usual - Merry Christmas to those who celebrate it, and to those who don't, enjoy your Sunday!
> 
>  
> 
> NEXT TIME:
> 
> If anything, Tim had been the cagiest of the family the last day or two. He’d skipped a few patrols, and when Dick had asked, Bruce just said he was working a case. That in itself wasn’t especially unusual, Tim had worked investigations by himself almost right from the start and brought Bruce in at the end for the bust, but Tim hadn’t said anything about it to him.


	10. Patrol

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tim follows up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains a character having a very rough night, mental health-wise, and is partly written from the perspective of that character. Tread carefully if that's likely to disturb.

Dick hadn’t been intending to patrol at all, not when his daughters needed him, but on the 28th Tim’s puppy eyes finally broke his resolve, with some help from Alfred. “You are a parent now, yes,” the butler reminded him, “But that doesn’t mean giving up everything in your life you enjoy. On the contrary, you must _make_ the time to keep up with your hobbies and your friends, for the sake of your own health. I am willing to look after Miss Amy and Miss Bridget for the evening. In the near future we must see about getting some babysitters. I daresay many of your friends will be willing to help out.”

He thought back to when he was a boy, small and new to being a vigilante and lonely. Batman had brought him to the Watchtower sometimes, when he had a mission and Alfred wasn’t available for whatever reason (even he needed time off), and whatever League members were available had kept an eye on him. 

It had been the best babysitting any kid could have asked for. The freaking _Justice League_. As he got to know him he got over his hero worship and come to love them as aunts and uncles, just like his aunts and uncles in the circus. 

He wanted that for his daughters, that extended family. Especially if their immediate family was just him and each other.

He’d been nine, though, when Bruce gave him over to the babysitting of earth’s mightiest heroes, not a baby. There was a bit more diaper-changing involved in looking after Amy and Bridget right now than there ever had been watching him. “If you say so, Alfred,” he said, and went to suit up.

“Awesome,” Tim said, when he saw.

Dick tried to muster up the enthusiasm he normally had for patrol. He did love it. He didn’t deserve it, but he loved it. Going out on the Gotham rooftops with Tim. It’d be fun. Fresh air, exercise, it’d do him good. Probably.

Winter in Gotham was much less pretty than winter in Bludhaven, one of the few things the smaller, poorer city had better than its neighbour. Bludhaven got snow, Gotham mostly got sleet. And sleet was one of the least fun things to patrol in. Every surface turned slick and icy, and occasionally he got hit in the face with globs of half-melted ice. 

“Figures,” Dick grumbled, as he and Tim perched on the railing of a rooftop garden. “The day I choose to patrol is the day with the worst weather.” His suit, unlike Batman’s or Robin’s, had only the most basic thermal regulation. On a night like this, with all the sleet and some vicious windchill, he could suffer hypothermia if he stayed still or in the icy rain too long.

“Would you rather be at home?”

Dick thought about his girls, who were either sleeping peacefully and giving Alfred a prime opportunity to put his newly-rediscovered camera through its paces, or making his evening hell. Either, or both, was possible. “Maybe.”

“Nightwing hasn’t been seen for more than a week. People start to notice.”

“They assume we’re injured. They don’t start to _worry_ until the two week mark, if then.”

“Still. You’re not injured.”

Dick sighed. “You know it can’t ever be like it was. My other responsibilities have to come first now.” There was nobody on the roof to hear them, but if he wasn’t using his own name while in costume, he sure wasn’t going to use his babies’ names in costume. Nobody needed to know that Nightwing was a new father.

Well, there were a few people who should know, but Dick couldn’t bring himself to tell them. Cass’ imminent return had him petrified. Bruce was bad enough, though Bruce was carefully not asking about Tarantula. Dick suspected Alfred’s involvement.

If anything, Tim had been the cagiest of the family the last day or two. He’d skipped a few patrols, and when Dick had asked, Bruce just said he was working a case. That in itself wasn’t especially unusual, Tim had worked investigations by himself almost right from the start and brought Bruce in at the end for the bust, but Tim hadn’t said anything about it to him.

“I know,” Tim muttered. “I just had to -“

He stopped mid-sentence. “What, Robin?”

“Talk,” he said.

“Okay,” Dick said. Dread coiled inside him, and the chill that ran over his skin wasn’t entirely from the cold. “What did you want to talk about?” He had self-imposed duties to Tim as well, as his surrogate big brother. “If it’s about Spoiler, I think she’s pretty cool. She’d understand about the vigilante stuff, so that’s a plus.”

“Everyone thinks we’re dating,” Tim muttered, and said, louder, “It’s not about Spoiler. She's a friend, nothing else.”

That would have been too much to hope for. “What is it?”

Tim didn’t speak for another solid minute. Dick was just about to suggest they give up, when Tim said, “I spoke to Amy Rohrbach.”

“Sorry, what?”

“I spoke to Amy Rohrbach,” Tim said, more firmly. “I went to Bludhaven in costume and spoke to her.”

Dick groped for words. “ _Why?_ ” he managed, but an instant later the answer came to him. Obvious, and if he’d been thinking properly, he’d have anticipated this. “B asked you to, didn’t he?”

“Yeah.”

“Of course.” _Keep cool, Grayson, you knew this was coming._ Just…did it have to be so soon? Did it have to be Tim? “What did you find out?”

“I asked about Tarantula.”

Dread. Fear. Guilt. He missed feeling things other than those. There was whatever it was he felt for his daughters - he was sure it was love, but a love drastically unlike what he felt about his parents or Bruce or Tim or Cass or Babs - but even that was mixed up with the other things. “And?”

“You used to work with her sometimes.”

He did. He remembered how it started. Messing with her, flirting with her - that had been fun. “It didn’t last,” he said sadly. “She made me look cautious and prudent. And she didn’t care if she killed the people we fought. I kept trying to get her to leave her gun at home, but she never listened.”

Tim nodded. “The sergeant said you’d stopped by January, before she murdered Redhorn.”

“Well before.” That, at least, he had nothing to do with. Nothing at all.

He was just waiting for the damning question, now.

“Dick,” Tim said, in an extremely rare breach of their standard field protocol, “That wasn’t all she told me. Sergeant Rohrbach said there were rumours you killed Blockbuster.”

It seemed like Tim couldn’t bring himself to ask it as a question. _Did you kill Blockbuster, Dick? Is Roland Desmond’s blood on Nightwing’s hands?_ It certainly had been. The shot, the spatter, he couldn’t _breathe_ -

He couldn’t breathe.

He could feel the hitching in his chest, the effort it took to make sure air got to all the places it was supposed to go. He could feel the blood pounding in his ears, like his head was about to explode. That would serve him right. That would be fair. 

“D- Nightwing, are you all right? Nightwing?”

But he couldn’t die right now, he had children to look after.

“Answer me! _Dick_. You’re scaring me. Are you all right?”

So he did what he always did when something bad happened, the thing he did that made Babs realise they weren’t going to work out as a couple. He ran. Upwards, at first, further up the building, but the sleet was too much like rain. Rain and rooftops. Dick couldn’t handle any more memory. He changed direction, went down, towards the streets.

At ground level it was no better. The buildings now looming above him and the narrow streets suddenly felt too much like the stairwell, all concrete and that rank, undefinable urban scent. The stairwell had smelled like that before the shot, and then afterwards like gunpowder and blood. He didn’t know how long he stood frozen on the street, but long enough to attract some attention from passerby. 

He couldn’t stay here either. Dick started running again. Behind him, he thought he could hear Tim calling for him to stop over his earpiece. He couldn’t face Tim either, Tim in his Robin costume, the name and colours that had belonged to the Graysons first, with pride. His parents wouldn’t be proud of him now.

Someone moved towards him. A woman. Dick flinched away and started moving again. He ran and ran, easily outpacing Robin. Wherever Robin was.

Then he ran into Jason.

Dark hair, square chin, the sort of leather jacket that Jason had loved - it looked for all the world like Dick’s other little brother. “You’re dead,” he said. His thoughts felt slow and clumsy. He couldn’t focus. “You’re dead.”

Jason’s face contorted into an angry sneer. “I wasn’t even looking for you this time. Nightwing,” he snarled, and even his _voice_ was like Jason’s.

Not quite. Too deep. And the face was too old. Jason had been a boy when he died, only fifteen. This was a man, full-grown or close to it, with old, hard eyes. Dick just hadn’t noticed in his panicky state. Not Jason then. Couldn’t be. Jason was _dead_. “Sorry,” he said, not sure if he was apologising to the random person he’d annoyed or the brother he’d failed. “I’m sorry.”

He fled again, twisting away from not-Jason’s attempt to grab his arm. Neon lights blurred through the sleet, adding to the unreal haze over his vision. His chest hurt.

He just wanted it to stop.

 

—

 

Batman was patrolling near Crime Alley - almost totally deserted, in this awful weather - when Robin hailed him. “Status?” he asked.

“I’m good,” Robin said, voice tight. “Nightwing isn’t.”

Safely hidden from prying eyes, Batman frowned. “He went on patrol?” He had wanted Dick back in the field, but not solo or only with Robin. He hadn’t specified, though, and so he only had himself to blame.

“I asked him. Alfred agreed. I thought it would help. Besides, I needed to ask him a few things in private.”

In most circumstances, Batman would have agreed that it would help too, and sensible to take him to a rooftop to ask questions of him discreetly. But Nightwing hadn’t been well since he came to Gotham for Christmas. Fragile was the word he’d used, talking to Alfred, and fragile seemed to be the case. “What happened?”

Robin hesitated, then admitted, “I asked him something. He didn’t answer. He didn’t even seem to hear me. Then he ran off. I followed him a few blocks, but…”

But even when he was disoriented and panicking, Nightwing was still one of the fastest non-metas around. Panic wouldn’t necessarily rob him of all his stealth skills and knowledge of Gotham, either, especially when he had trained so hard to make those skills habit. Robin’s experience in following them around the city notwithstanding, Nightwing had nine years of vigilante work on him. Losing Robin would have been fairly simple for him, even unconsciously done.

“Which direction did he go?”

“Towards the Narrows. I’ll call Penny-One and stay in pursuit.”

“Do that.” Now he was worried. Nightwing panicking and irrational could do no good, and only get himself hurt or killed. It was Batman’s turn to panic, just slightly, at the thought of his new grandchildren orphaned before they were a month old, effectively orphaned as he had been orphaned, as their father had been orphaned. It was not going to happen. He would not allow it to happen.

The sleet eased up slightly as he headed towards the Narrows. He kept both eyes peeled for any sign of his wayward partner, a black shadow in the city’s nighttime grey, a flash of blue in the streetlight orange. The rooftops were the best place to look for Nightwing. Given the choice, he would always try to get up high.

“Nightwing, come in,” he said over his earpiece. “Respond. Nightwing.”

No response. Nothing. For _minutes._ At last Alfred called in. “His suit’s tracker shows him to be three rooftops northeast of your current location, sir,” he said. “The signal’s been moving at a pace and in a pattern that indicates Master Nightwing has been traversing the neighbourhood under his own power. Do find him soon, sir. This is no weather for him to be still in.”

That was something. Batman called Robin again, on a channel limited to just them. “What did you ask him?”

Robin hesitated. “Something I found out in Bludhaven,” he said at last. “There are rumours there that he was the one who killed Blockbuster in April. Sergeant Rohrbach all but told me that they were more than just rumours. I’m sorry, Batman, I should have known it would upset him this badly, but he just _ran_ -”

“Nightwing?” Batman said, focusing on the new information. “Shoot Blockbuster dead? That’s absurd.”

“That’s what I thought. But Sergeant Rohrbach said she covered up evidence that he was there that night. She said Tarantula was there as well. I wanted to ask him if _she’d_ done it, but as soon as I mentioned the rumours he panicked. Then bolted. He wouldn’t answer when I talked to him. I don’t think he even _heard_ me.”

Tarantula killing Blockbuster sounded more likely than Nightwing murdering anyone. And yet…

What Blockbuster had done to Nightwing was, frankly, almost beyond his imagination. Beyond understanding. When he was eight, Dick had seen everything he loved taken away from him and then rebuilt something new from the ashes; Blockbuster had tried to murder what Dick had built just to see him suffer. Batman could not have brushed off an attack of that magnitude. Anyone could crack from what Blockbuster had done to Nightwing. And in those circumstances, killing…was a possibility.

Bruce had seen Dick enraged before. Batman could remember a small, tearful Robin kicking a downed Tony Zucco again and again and again, and a grown Nightwing trembling as he resisted the urge to leap for the Joker’s throat and either squeeze or twist (he’d never asked). He couldn’t say with certainty that Dick would _never_. If Nightwing would kill for anything, it was family. 

He couldn’t rule it out.

After fifteen minutes of Alfred-assisted searching, he found Nightwing. Not on a rooftop, to his surprise, but huddled on a particularly dark fire escape thankfully out of the wind, though not entirely out of the sleet. Batman perched on a railing above him, and as Nightwing looked up, he had a vulnerable, shuttered look to his face.

“I’m losing it, B,” he said. “I thought I saw Jason.”

He was already drenched. Soaked to the skin with a mixture of ice and rain, hair plastered to his head. He was shaking, too, and Batman hoped it was only from the cold.

“You need to go home,” Batman said, as gently as he could, ignoring the stab at the mention of his dead son, Nightwing’s dead brother. It had taken him months to stop seeing reminders of Jason in every person he passed on the street. He did not want the same for Nightwing. “Penny-One will be waiting. And others.”

“Others,” Nightwing said bitterly. “Why do I love them? It would be much easier if I didn’t. Then I could give them up and they could have a better life. They’d miss out on you and the rest of the family, but it might be worth it if they weren’t stuck with me.”

The self-pity and self-hatred were extremely alarming. He didn’t know what to say. All he knew was that Nightwing needed to go _home_. He needed to not be on the streets. “Nightwing,” he repeated. “Let’s go. You can’t stay out here.”

“Okay,” he said. He got to his feet, moving with only a shadow of his usual grace.

“I’ll call for the car,” Batman said. “I don’t want you taking the rooftops in your condition.”

“That’s probably sensible,” Nightwing said. It tore at Batman’s heart to hear that. Nightwing wasn’t known for his love of sensible things, and especially not for his sensible attitude to heights and rooftops. Nightwing passing up an opportunity to travel by rooftop when he wasn’t physically injured was _unheard of_. Not that Batman would have let him go by rooftop when he was this chilled; cold, numb hands did not lend themselves to a sure, safe grip.

Batman stood close as he waited for the car’s self-driving system to find them. Nightwing said nothing, just stayed far too still.

“I didn’t pull the trigger,” Nightwing said.

“Blockbuster?” Batman asked. In the back of his mind he knew it might not be the right time, definitely not the right place, but he also had to know.

“Robin couldn’t make himself ask,” Nightwing continued, as if he hadn’t heard. Batman didn’t want to interrupt, in case it stopped him talking. “So easy. ‘Did you kill him, Nightwing?’ That’s all. I didn’t pull the trigger. I stepped back when she asked and let her kill him. Still my fault. I knew she’d do it.”

He looked up at Batman. “I just wanted it to stop,” he said, sounding like a confused boy rather than a young man. “He said it wouldn’t stop, never ever stop. I just wanted it to stop.”

What did people _say_ in this situation?

Bruce knew he was bad with emotions, both his own and other people’s. It had hurt him many times, especially when he tried to deal with Dick. Now Dick needed him to be there as he had needed him after his parents were murdered, and as he had needed Bruce when Blockbuster had started this whole sorry mess. Bruce had succeeded the first time, and failed the second.

He couldn’t afford to fail now. “It’s over,” Bruce tried. “He can’t hurt you anymore.”

But Dick just looked stricken. “She said…something like that.”

“Tarantula,” Batman growled.

The thought struck him. He _hated_ the mother of his grandchildren. She’d clearly hurt Dick. Beyond badly. Bruce had never seen Nightwing reduced to such a state. It wasn’t right. And he didn’t know what to do.

“Don’t blame her,” Nightwing said - practically begged. “It’s my fault. I’m the one who knew better.”

Batman ignored him. He couldn’t handle this either. Not here, not how. He needed to get Dick home. That was his only priority. It was another full minute before the car arrived. He bundled Nightwing inside like he hadn’t had to since he’d been both Robin and injured. The car was heated, and he kept a towel in there. That would go some way to fixing one of Dick’s problems.

When they were on their way back, Gotham sealed out behind metal and fibreglass, Dick said, for what seemed like the fiftieth time, “I’m sorry.”

This, he knew the right answer to. _You have nothing to be sorry for, Dick_. Bruce wished he could say it, but he knew it wasn’t true, now, and he knew Dick knew it wasn’t true. It wouldn’t help. He wished he knew what would.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope everyone's holidays or not-holidays are going well! Thank you all for the continued feedback on this story. Next chapter will be up next week, as usual.
> 
>  
> 
> NEXT TIME:
> 
> “I don’t know what to do for him,” Master Bruce confessed, as they watched Richard watch his children, from a prudent distance, of course. “He confessed to allowing Tarantula to murder Roland Desmond.”
> 
> “Allowing?” Alfred asked. “Whatever do you mean by ‘allowing’?”
> 
> “He wasn’t clear,” Master Bruce said. “He said he stepped aside and allowed her to shoot, nothing more.”


	11. Cold Comfort

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alfred attempts to treat the most pressing injury. Dick gets a phone call.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Slightly early chapter, slightly longer chapter. Mind the tags and the more detailed warnings on chapter one.

It had been difficult to ascertain, on any given day thus far into the particular low-key crisis, whether the presence of Master Richard’s children would comfort him or disturb him. Alfred had thus far been unable to determine a pattern. Nevertheless, when Master Bruce radioed in to say he had retrieved the errant Nightwing following his panic attack, Alfred had brought both Misses Amy and Bridget down to the cave where they would be at hand for their father’s reassurance. He set them down before the computer, hoping the blinking display wouldn’t bother them. Some children watched mobiles, others watched supercomputers.

Neither girl seemed to mind. If anything, they seemed to enjoy the movement, with particularly pleased gurgles whenever they were taken up and down stairs. He might be projecting his knowledge of their father onto them, but Alfred rather thought their love of heights was a Grayson trait.

It was a happier thought than those occurred when Master Richard all but stumbled from the Batmobile. Alfred moved towards him to offer assistance - the only time he had seen Richard so uncoordinated was in the event of serious injury or while under the influence of whatever ghastly mind-altering chemical Professor Crane or Dr Isley were using this month - but Richard flinched away and refused eye contact.

A glance at Master Bruce confirmed that whatever had happened, it was of the utmost seriousness.

Richard, in the meantime, had homed in on his daughters. He did not touch them. He did so now only when attending to their various physical needs, or, as Master Bruce had reported, when he felt his custody of them was threatened. Instead, he allowed and encouraged others to hold them.

“I don’t know what to do for him,” Master Bruce confessed, as they watched Richard watch his children, from a prudent distance, of course. “He confessed to allowing Tarantula to murder Roland Desmond.”

“Allowing?” Alfred asked. “Whatever do you mean by ‘allowing’?”

“He wasn’t clear,” Master Bruce said. “He said he stepped aside and allowed her to shoot, nothing more.”

The poor boy _would_ blame himself for that, of course. He had well and truly adopted Master Bruce’s views on killing. It was a fact not often acknowledged in Wayne Manor that Alfred did not share in them. He had killed before, and he knew himself perfectly capable of doing so again if he deemed it necessary.

Out of respect and affection for Master Bruce, it was unlikely that he ever would while in service to the Wayne household and the Batman, but it was the principle of the matter.

There were other reasons, more prosaic than moral high-mindedness, to embrace Master Bruce’s prohibition on killing; little as Alfred liked it, Master Bruce needed Batman, and Master Richard needed Nightwing (though not in the same way, thank the heavens). The police tolerated said Batman in large part because he did not kill. Various informants and many victims of crime trusted Batman more for knowing he did not kill and would take extreme measures to prevent fatalities. Other criminals feared the pain and humiliation Batman could and might inflict far more than they feared death.

But when it came right down to it, if Alfred had been the one whom Roland Desmond had targeted, he would have put a bullet between the man’s eyes himself, and saved his only remorse in the matter for how disappointed Master Bruce would be.

Alfred stepped forward, picking up a blanket as he went. “Come now, Master Richard,” he said. “Mask off. You’ve been out in that awful weather quite long enough.”

“I don’t feel cold,” he murmured.

“Your blue lips say otherwise. Mask off. Warm up. Properly. Then you may return to your paternal duties.” He draped the blanket around Richard without waiting for a response. His armour was freezing to the touch even after the car journey. Almost literally so. If he wasn’t careful he would develop hypothermia, right here in the cave.

Richard hesitated, then accepted the blanket, shoulders slumping under the fleece as though Alfred had piled him with lead weights. “Thanks,” he said. “I don’t deserve -“

“Nonsense,” Alfred cut him off. “I care for you a great deal, my boy, and I find it most distressing to hear you say you don’t deserve the affection shown you.”

That hit some mark, though whether it was one Alfred had wished to hit he did not know. He discreetly waved Master Bruce back, feeling that his intervention in this moment would only crowd him. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Master Bruce frown, then retreat, presumably to change and shower. 

Richard blinked slowly, lost and sad. “You - you don’t - “

“Master Bruce just informed me of what you told him,” Alfred said. “It changes nothing on my part. I am glad you are still with us, Master Richard, and it matters not to me who gave birth to your daughters when you are the one who is raising them.”

Richard looked back towards the girls in question helplessly. “What if - what if I can’t love them enough? I love them, I really do, I don’t want them to think _I_ hate them because of - “

Alfred had never heard a fear quite so irrational. Richard Grayson, not love someone enough. The very idea. But scoffing would not reassure him, when Master Richard seemed most in need of reassurance. More, even, than last week when he had assumed responsibility for his children.

“It may take much careful explanation,” Alfred said gently. “But in the end I am sure you will convey adequately to Miss Amy and Miss Bridget, when they are old enough to understand, that any poor history with their biological mother does not prevent you from loving them.”

“Poor history,” Richard repeated. “You could call it that.”

“I shall,” Alfred said. “Now, finish drying and have something to eat. If I’m not mistaken, there are more important things in your life than Miss Flores, and you must look after yourself in order to attend to them.”

Finally, Richard’s shoulders straightened. Master Richard always had responded to reminders of his family. There were sometimes troubling aspects of self-denial in his response, but Alfred was _not_ willing to let him stand around in wet clothing fretting about Master Bruce’s opinion of him. They could worry about Richard’s mental state later. Potential hypothermia came first.

Under Alfred’s watchful eye, Richard did go to look after his post-patrol needs. Once he was gone, Masters Bruce and Timothy appeared from the woodwork. “Is he all right now?” Timothy asked anxiously.

In some ways, Alfred reflected, Timothy was the most innocent of the boys to come through this cave. Not totally innocent, no. Between his own neglectful parents and his experiences travelling the streets of Gotham meant that he knew more of the damage humans could do each other than many Gothamites his age, but the long-term aftermath of violent crime was something the current Robin knew less about. It was simply not something he had lived with, as Master Bruce or Master Richard or Master Jason (rest his soul) had. That would change in time.

“His panic has subsided for the moment,” Alfred said. “I doubt he is what any of us would call ‘okay’.”

“Why didn’t he _tell_ us?”

And speaking of boys.

Alfred loved Bruce very much. He was inordinately proud of him. And more than anyone else, he was familiar with the man’s flaws. Bruce Wayne was not the sort of man one confided in. He was mistrustful of others at best and downright paranoid at worst. He was slow to love and almost entirely incapable of showing that love any way other than his pocketbook (though to Alfred’s surprise and relief, he _had_ taken to his granddaughters). The standards he set, for himself and others, were nigh-impossible or actually impossible to attain.

And because that closely-guarded heart loved deeply once one was admitted, all those usual disappointments in other people that cropped up over a lifetime, he felt every bit as deeply. The people who loved Bruce, with all his faults, often wanted to spare him that.

“I suspect because he wished to protect you from the knowledge of his perceived failure.” Even now Alfred could hardly stand the gutted look on Timothy’s face. And to protect himself, no doubt. Protect himself from facing people who looked at him like that.

Master Bruce, though, had the general demeanour of someone who didn’t think this was just a _perceived_ failure. He did have a way of looming whenever he felt distressed. Alfred would go so far as to use the word ‘anguished’ to describe him right now. Just as much as Timothy, in his own way.

This could go extremely poorly. “I suggest you don’t push him about it,” Alfred continued. “Roland Blockbuster is dead. Nothing will change that. And what if he has said is true, surely you don’t believe you could or should punish Master Richard worse than he is already punishing himself?”

The glare still worked on Timothy, who nodded, face white and lip re-split from chewing on it in anxiety, and said, “I have to get home before my dad notices I’m gone. I’ll be back tomorrow. I - I need to apologise.”

Alfred wasn’t sure Timothy could be held responsible for inciting a panic attack he couldn’t have known was coming, but he was hardly going to discourage anyone from showing Richard that he was still loved and valued.

Once Timothy was gone, and Richard still in the showers, Master Bruce yet lingered. “He was seeing things,” Master Bruce said. “He said he saw Jason.”

“I’m sure he didn’t hallucinate Master Jason just to distress you further,” Alfred said sharply, then remembered. “Incidentally, sir, while we speak of your other children, Miss Cassandra called. She has booked flights and will be returning to Gotham tomorrow.”

Long familiarity with Master Bruce let Alfred see all the relief in that tiny shift of brow and mouth. “Good,” he said. “Good.”

 

—

 

There was a message on Dick’s phone once he got himself and the girls back up to his room, feeling physically exhausted and emotionally wrung out. The girls, at least, were behaving well tonight, though Alfred had reported that they had been screaming earlier. “Missing their father, no doubt,” he had said.

Could babies that young recognise people? Dick didn’t know. He needed parenting books. He added that to the list of things he needed. It was a long list already.

But first, the phone.

It was Babs.

They’d only spoken a few times after he’d come back from undercover. He knew she knew he wasn’t telling her everything about what happened in the days after she’d dumped him, and he knew she hated it. The secrets made things awkward. All the same he couldn’t bear to admit it. Any of it. He didn’t want her to blame herself for not letting him stay at her place after everything went to shit.

She had done what was right for herself. As far as Babs had known, he’d still had Bruce, still had Alfred, still had Tim. Still had any number of friends to fall back on. He didn’t blame her for that. After the rooftop he hadn’t deserved to be angry about it.

He knew - he _knew_ \- he’d have to tell her about the babies, at least. God. He didn’t want to tell her. She’d never forgive him. They had enough mutual friends that she’d find out anyway. She’d never forgive him for not telling her himself. _Grayson, you coward. Tell her._ Like ripping off a band-aid.

It was four in the morning, but she’d still be awake for another hour at least. Fingers shaking, Dick hit the button to call back.

Three rings and Dick was tempted to end call and say he’d missed her. Before he could hang up - _Grayson, you_ coward _-_ there was a click and Babs’ voice came through. “Dick?”

“Yeah,” he said. “Hi, Babs. You rang?”

“Yeah.”

It seemed like yesterday when they could talk all night. Back before the Joker shot her. After that…he hadn’t expected things to be the same. He’d tried to stay positive. He didn’t know what he’d done wrong. But it was _something_.

She was the one to break the silence. “I just wanted to say Merry Christmas. It’s a few days late, I know.”

“I could have called on time,” Dick said. He could have. He hadn’t. _Tell her_. “Why don’t we just call it even?”

“Even? _I_ called _you_ , Grayson.”

“I’ve had a bit on my mind,” he said.

More silence. Dick _hated_ it.

_Tell her. Tell her now. Just do it._ She’d only shout at him the once. Then hold the grudge forever because that was a thing she and Bruce had in common.

He said, “I have something to tell you,” at the same moment she said, “I’ve got some news.”

“You first,” he said. “You called me.”

“I’m getting back into the game,” Babs said. “I might not be able to do the physical stuff anymore, not like I used to, but I can still use the computers. Better than anyone, even Tim. While you were away I started training for that, establishing a presence, getting my place set up - I’m ready. I’m going to start officially on New Year’s Day.”

He’d missed so much while he was undercover. “We’ll have you back?” he asked, hardly daring to believe it. “In the field?”

“Well, I won’t be in the field,” Babs said. “I’ll be on the computers if you need me. I’ll be _helping_ again.”

“That’s amazing,” he breathed. “That’s so amazing.” He probably wouldn’t get to work with her often. Bruce would ground him for months over the panic attack, and even after he got done being grounded, he’d still have two young children to look after. Years of once-a-week patrolling loomed ahead. “I’ve missed you out there.”

“I’ve missed being out there.” She hesitated. “I’ve set up at the old clock tower, you know the one?”

Dick did.

“Call ahead and you’ll be welcome,” Babs said. “Almost any time. I want you to see it.”

“I wish I could have been there for you.” Maybe he and Babs weren’t together, but he still wanted to be her friend.  When she’d dumped him, they’d still promised each other that much. A friend would have been there to help move her computers into the tower, helped her get the place wired the way she wanted. Dick had been out playing villain. For the best of reasons - Slade wouldn’t have let anyone else close enough to learn what Dick had learned, information that had saved Bludhaven - and he’d still been absent.

“It was something I needed to do myself. On my own. I know you understand what it’s like to start out under a different name, by yourself.”

Yes, but. He knew what it was like to need to be your own person. He wouldn’t be Nightwing if he didn’t. “I didn’t do it on my own,” he said. “I had Alfred. Clark. You.”

“It’s different,” Babs said, voice slightly harsh. “I had to prove, _to myself_ , that I could still do this.”

Dick backed off. He didn’t want to fight. “I get it,” he said. “I didn’t mean to make you mad.”

“I know.” Babs sighed, and Dick heard the frustration. “But you _don’t_ get it, Dick. People take one look and only see the wheelchair. They think I’m helpless. Even my dad acts like it sometimes. Even you. I’m sick of people hovering.”

“Okay,” he said. “Okay.”

“You said you had something you wanted to tell me too,” Babs reminded him. He thought ‘reminded’ but really, there was no forgetting it. Only putting it off.

“Can - can we make this a video call?” Dick asked. It was getting late/early even by his standards, probably not the best time for dropping revelations like this. Every time he didn’t say it, though, it would get harder and harder, and ‘I have twin children’ was not something that could be hidden. “I can’t just tell you this.”

The phone beeped, and Dick moved it to see Babs’ face. The angle was still new-ish to him, closer to the ground. After six months undercover where he couldn’t talk to her in person, the wheelchair and all its reminders weren’t quite integrated into his first mental picture of her, but she was still beautiful and he didn’t understand why she couldn’t see that anymore. Four in the morning, lit only by the glow of one of her computer monitors, no makeup, wearing a baggy GCPD sweatshirt - beautiful.  He’d never loved a girl more. Except Cass, and that was different.

And, he realised, his daughters. That was different again. Obviously.

“Hey,” he said. He knew he was positioned so he was the only thing she could see in his room. The babies were still out of view. Quiet, too. They were going to let him tell this on his own terms, it seemed. Simple. Just tell his ex, who he still loved, that he had two children by a woman who’d tried to kill her.

“You look awful,” she said.

“It’s been a rough night.” He sighed. “Look, Babs, I know you’re going to be mad at me, it’s just - it’s not the sort of thing you can just _say_.”

Worry creased her face. “Dick, what’s the matter?”

She was going to hate him for this. He took a deep breath, then turned the phone’s camera on his sleeping daughters. He heard Babs gasp. The upside, however, was that he didn’t have to see her face as she realised.

“Dick,” Babs said, her voice carefully even in a way Dick was very familiar with from the last days of their romantic relationship, “Are those yours?”

When he answered, his voice was not so level as hers. “Yeah.”

“And how old are they?”

“A week. Born on the 21st.”

There was an awful, awful silence. “You can turn the phone around now,” Babs said. Her voice chilled him. As he’d suspected, she was angry with him. It took all he had not to flinch away from the hurt in her eyes, even over the video. “I can count backwards as well as anyone,” she said. “Did you cheat on me?”

“No! I would never!” That, at least, was easy to answer. He might have ruined his relationship with the only girl he'd ever seriously been interested in, but cheating had not been one of his mistakes.

That didn’t seem to appease Babs, though. “So once we broke up, you went out and found yourself another girl? I thought you were better than that.”

“I didn’t - it wasn’t like that -“

“It wasn’t rebound sex? Not that I have any right to say what you do with your dick, but _really_ , you didn’t even use protection?”

Dick choked up. He hadn’t even thought about protection at the time. He’d just tried to…not think. Not feel. He hadn’t managed to stop feeling, and the thoughts that had gone through his head were all wrong. Birth control had not been one of them. For lack of anything better to tell her, he simply said, “No.”

There was scorn on her face now. Dick wished he could sink through the carpet.

“I wasn’t expecting,” he tried, but he could already see the _who does?_ forming on her lips, so he changed tack. “I’m all they have,” he said.

That did get her expression to soften, just slightly. “I’m sorry. It’s just a bit of a shock.”

“To me too,” he said. He turned the phone back around to show her again. “I got the phone call only a few hours before they were born. This is Amy,” he said, pointing the camera at the girl in yellow. “She’s the older one, by half an hour or so, they told me. And Bridget.” He shifted the shot to the girl in pink.

“Identical or fraternal twins?”

“I haven’t found any differences,” Dick confessed. “Neither has Alfred, and you know how sharp he is about that sort of thing.”

“Identical, then. Are they taking your surname? I’m assuming, since they’re with you.”

“They’re Graysons.” He could teach them to fly. Like his own father and mother had taught him once.

He couldn’t see Babs’ hands, but he could hear her typing. Then he heard her stop. That was when he knew she knew. “Catalina Flores,” Babs said. “They’re Tarantula’s.”

Dick flinched. He couldn’t help it. “They’re mine. They’re _Graysons_. It’s not their fault.”

“No,” Babs said, flat and cold. “It’s yours. What the hell, Dick? She tried to kill me. Were you that mad I broke up with you?”

“It wasn’t like that,” Dick protested. It sounded feeble, even to him.

“Oh, really? What was it like?”

The rooftop. He didn’t want to think about it, he didn’t want to remember. The rain, Tarantula’s weight on top of him, her hands pressing down on his chest, the empty, treacherous, purely physical pleasure of the act. “Not like that,” he said. “Babs-“

“She tried to kill me, Dick. You remember. You were there. And you _slept_ with her? She had your _children_?”

“ _Babs_ -“

Babs cut him off again. “Save it. I don’t want to hear it. I just can’t deal with this, Dick, I just can’t. I’ve got more important things to do.” She nodded at the side of the screen, the same direction where he’d shown her his babies. They were starting to fidget. Soon they’d start crying. “So do you, it seems.”

She hung up.

It wasn’t like Dick hadn’t known.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well...I've been both looking forward to and dreading posting that last bit. Thanks again for all the comments, kudos, and bookmarks, and the next chapter will be up in a week!
> 
>  
> 
> NEXT TIME:
> 
> “Did you sleep well?” Bruce asked, knowing the answer would not be good.
> 
> “Not really.”
> 
> “Was it what we discussed last night?”
> 
> “Babs called.”


	12. Poison

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dick and Bruce experiment with talking about their problems. Tim grows up just that little bit more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again there's a mention of Tim's parents neglecting him and allusions to the effects this has had on him. This chapter's also probably at peak preboot/reboot mashup. Abandon timelines all ye who enter here. We're all comics fans, right?

It didn’t take Bruce long at all to notice how despondent Dick was the next morning. It was a terrible thing to see. He barely said a word. He wouldn’t touch anyone voluntarily, especially not his children. He wouldn’t even make eye contact.

Bruce was frantic with worry.

“Cass will be back today,” he said.

No response. Not even a grunt of acknowledgement.

He hoped Cass could do something, or provide some insight. She read people well at the worst of times, and she was particularly good at reading Dick. _He speaks so clearly_ , she said, referring not to his words but how he moved. Bruce just wanted to know how to fix this, as much as he wanted his daughter back under his roof.

Her plane wasn’t due in for a few more hours, though. In the meantime… he had to do something. He picked up Amy and physically placed her in her father’s arms. “Babies need touch,” he said. “They need affection.”

“Not from me,” Dick said dully, the first thing he’d said for an hour. “My fault. Shouldn’t touch them.”

“You’re their father.” Bruce hesitated, and brought out a painful card to play. This was more important than his feelings. “My father was the one who told me babies needed touch. I remember him telling me about helping to perform an emergency caesarian section.” It had been only weeks before he died, in fact, that Thomas Wayne had assisted with that operation. At eight, Bruce had been disgusted by the very thought.

It always hurt to remember his parents, but after he’d learned about what happened and how it had affected Bruce, Dick had wanted to know more about them. Bruce had never dared to hope it was because Dick appropriated them as honorary grandparents, much as he had Alfred and Leslie. So when Dick pulled Amy in a bit tighter to his body, murmuring “Gotta take great-grandpa Thomas’ official medical advice, hey, Ames?” he felt for a minute that he’d done something _right_.

It was not, however, fixed. Bruce knew it wasn’t, and it wouldn’t be as long as Dick only touched his daughters out of a sense of duty. That was no way to raise a child. Bruce wasn’t much of a parent and even he knew that.

Bruce sat down across from Dick, taking his turn holding Bridget. She was fussing badly, as on edge as her father was. He wondered if they could tell he was upset, even through his quiet. “Did you sleep well?” Bruce asked Dick, knowing the answer would not be good.

“Not really.”

“Was it what we discussed last night?”

“Babs called.”

Oh. That would have been bound to hurt both Dick and Barbara. Barbara did not forgive and forget, and so she would not think tolerantly of Dick sleeping with Tarantula. She would have been very angry; Dick, guilty. A bad combination. “Are you two…all right?” he asked, dreading the answer.

“She doesn’t want to talk to me.”

Distressingly, he held Amy out just a bit further from his body upon saying it. Barbara had been outright hostile, then. Well, Tarantula _had_ tried to kill her, it would be unreasonable to expect her to be completely fine about this. Though if she couldn’t manage to treat the girls as their own people, there would be changes. They were Dick’s daughters and Bruce’s granddaughters. Nobody was going to treat them as less because of who their mother was, not in Bruce’s hearing.

Before Bruce could say anything, Dick added, “She’s getting back in the game, did you know?”

“She sent me the bill,” Bruce said. “Not that I mind. Barbara’s entirely too good to lose completely.”

Dick looked downcast. “Was I the last to know about it, then?”

It was possible. Bruce couldn’t bear to say it. He knew full well how Dick felt about Barbara. He doubted those feelings had faded or changed, for Dick, in the months he’d been away. “She wanted to tell you herself,” he said, “not pass a message on through someone else.”

“I get it,” Dick said miserably. “I just - I don’t know what I could have done differently. With her.”

“The only thing you could have done to avoid this outcome would have doomed Bludhaven,” Bruce said. The plot to destroy it had not been an idle one. And Dick would never wish to change saving the city he considered his. Not while remaining Dick Grayson.

After a long silence, Dick said, “Did you want to know about Blockbuster?”

Very, very much. “If you’re willing and ready to talk,” Bruce said. He _wanted_ to shout at Dick. Those were his first and firmest instincts. But it never worked, not with his elder son. It always ended with Dick storming off, sometimes out of the city altogether. This would be the worst possible time for Bruce to lose control of his temper, of his worry and his fear. He’d already done so when Dick had walked into the manor before Christmas. That Dick _hadn’t_ stormed out showed just how badly off he was.

If he had learned something from Jason, from Jason’s death, it was how better to deal with Dick. It wasn’t cold comfort, no, it was…important, but he did wish with all his heart that he would have learned better, earlier, before Jason got it into his head to run off after his biological mother without telling anyone.

Dick needed him. Jason was beyond needing help, now.

“I didn’t even know why he was so angry with me,” Dick said. “I thought I’d just wrecked a business venture too many, you know? Not that I’d killed his mother.”

New information. “What happened with Blockbuster’s mother?”

“I was chasing a criminal. I fell in the middle of a road. It caused a traffic jam. Mrs Desmond was there, she had a heart attack, the ambulance couldn’t get to her in time.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Bruce growled. “You are not responsible for a death in those circumstances.”

“Who else to blame? I fell. I knew I disrupted traffic. But I just got up and kept chasing the woman who’d knocked me down.”

Bruce narrowed his eyes. “Why were you chasing this woman?”

“She was hanging people. We fought. I lost. I didn’t even save the man she’d gone to kill.”

Every word of this story only made Bruce want to start shouting more. This was _not Dick’s fault_. Why couldn’t he _see_? He was suddenly, absurdly thankful that he’d thought to pick up Bridget. It was harder to show anger while holding onto the baby. “You did what you had to,” he said. “What you should have done. _We can't save everyone_ , Dick, and what were your other options?”

Dick shook his head. “I should have been more thoughtful. Just because nobody _crashed_ , I thought it would be okay.”

Bruce restrained another frustrated expression and gesture. He could not let himself do anything that Dick would take as condemnation. “Mrs Desmond’s death is far removed from your actions. But we’ve got off track.”

“Blockbuster. Yes. You know how he responded.”

By killing everything Dick loved that he could get his hands on. Not Bruce, Batman, with Waynetech security and money and powerful allies. Not Cass or Tim, trained and capable. No, Blockbuster had gone after Dick’s college, the apartment block he lived in, the circus he came from. Civilians. The ordinary people he surrounded himself with.

And Barbara Gordon. Roland Desmond’s mistake. Just because Barbara’s legs no longer responded to her brain’s commands didn’t render her incapable of physical activity entirely. From the day she left hospital, she had worked hard to adapt her fighting techniques.

Still, Tarantula had succeeded in precipitating the end of Dick and Barbara’s romantic relationship.

“Yes,” Bruce said. “Yes, I do.”

“I tried so hard to stop him. Bruce, you - you have to believe - I did everything I could - if I hadn’t been so _stupid_ -“

Everything he could, he said, and yet he still blamed himself for Blockbuster’s death. “What did you do, before what happened in the stairwell?” he asked.

“Mostly beat up his people. But I went for him, too, I provoked him into confessing and had Tarantula record it on my phone. Better quality. We took it to her brother, he was a DA, she swore we could trust him. He took my phone and smashed it. I hadn’t even made a copy. Just two buttons and I could have sent it to you, or A - Sergeant Rohrbach, or anyone. I wasn’t thinking.”

_That_ had definitely been a mistake, and a bad one at that. Bruce took a deep breath and reminded himself that he had made grievous errors when exhausted, himself. Once, after a mass Arkham breakout, run off his feet, he had very nearly allowed Officer Montoya to be killed by Victor Zsasz. Then he’d nearly beaten Zsasz to death.

“This was after your apartment block was destroyed, yes?” Bruce knew that it was. He had sent Alfred with clothing for Dick and money for a hotel room - _clothing and money_ , as if that could replace a life in ruins - while Bruce focused on the details of the mission he was planning to ask Dick to undertake.

He hadn’t even picked up the phone because deep down, he still smarted over what they’d fought about the Christmas before. He was thoroughly disgusted with himself.

“It was a mistake,” Bruce said. “We both know that. I know you’ve been meticulous copying your files since.” He’d electronically duplicated _everything_ he’d found while undercover and working for Deathstroke, sending copies to three different secure dropboxes.

“Fool me once, shame on me,” Dick said.

“You’ve got it wrong.” Fool me once, shame on _you_. 

“Slade wouldn’t have smashed the phone. Just my hand.”

“It doesn’t matter what Wilson would have done,” Bruce growled, hating how Dick referred to the man by his first name. He regretted it instantly, since it pushed Bridget over the line from fussing to crying. That in turn set her older sister off. And _that_ , two babies crying at once, looked like it might push Dick over the edge as well. “Alfred’s been walking them up and down the stairs when they’ve been like this,” he said, forcing his tone to something much more gentle. “Let’s go.”

 

—

 

Tim managed to escape his house in the hours before Cass was due back. If he could have told his dad the truth, he would have, but “Sorry I don’t want to hang out with you today, dad, I need to go check on my unofficial older brother-slash-vigilante mentor because I accidentally triggered him last night while we were hanging out forty stories above street level and sent him sprinting through Gotham’s worst neighbourhoods in a blind panic by asking him if the mother of his surprise newborn children murdered a mob boss” probably wouldn’t get him the space he needed to make sure Dick was coping.

No, his dad would not be happy with that sort of sentence at all. And Tim would end up grounded until he left for college.

So even though he _knew_ his dad wanted to watch TV with him or something, Tim ducked out of the house, over the fence, and headed over the grounds to Wayne Manor itself.

Alfred met him at the door. “Ah, Timothy. Good, good. I’m glad you’re here.”

“How is he?” Tim asked anxiously. If he’d just thought a bit more carefully. He shouldn’t have asked while they were out on patrol, but all he’d thought was that Dick wouldn’t want to talk about it in Bruce’s house. It was shortsighted. Thinking ahead was supposed to be his strength, as a Robin, the thing that set him apart from Dick and Jason. He’d failed.

“Not well,” Alfred said. “I have seen him worse, but no, he is not well. Master Bruce has been trying all morning to get him to talk, with some success, I am happy to say.”

“About Blockbuster?”

“Correct.”

“Where are they at the moment?”

Alfred gestured towards the main stairs. “Attempting to calm the young misses down. And well they might cry at hearing the awful things Blockbuster did to their father. But I have yet to meet the Grayson who wasn’t calmed by a disproportionately great height.”

Sure enough, when Tim looked up, both Bruce and Dick were there, each holding a baby. The girls weren’t crying now.

“Master Bruce, Master Richard, Timothy is here.”

Bruce just nodded, concentration on the girl he was holding. Dick said, “Hi, Tim.” Not a trace of enthusiasm.

“Timothy will be accompanying me to the airport to collect Miss Cassandra,” Alfred continued. “Master Richard, Miss Amy and Miss Bridget will need feeding soon.”

“I’m sure they’ll let him know,” Bruce said. He still looked incredibly strange holding an infant. It wasn’t the sort of thing Tim had ever imagined Batman doing. It wasn’t the sort of thing he’d ever imagined _Bruce Wayne_ doing. It was possible that Bruce had a kid or two of his own out there (or not; surely if it was the case, the mother would ensure Bruce paid his share for the baby’s upbringing), but Tim had never pictured him with a _baby_.

For all he looked awkward, he was surprisingly good with them. 

Or at least, he was good with Dick’s babies. Unflappable - more accurately, unflappable once he was shown exactly how to change a diaper and heat up a formula bottle. And he would never, ever drop them, like Tim was afraid of doing when he picked either of them up. Bruce wasn’t a natural kid person, but he was a quick study.

“But I’ll be back for dinner afterwards, if you want me,” Tim said.

“Of course,” Bruce said. “We’ll be waiting. Takeout, right?”

Dick said nothing.

There was nothing to do but give him an anxious glance - the latest of many - and head out after Alfred. “I see what you mean,” he said, once they were out of earshot. He couldn't even be upset that Alfred had herded him out of the house as soon as he'd got there, not with Dick looking like that. “I wish there was something I could _do_.”

“There is no quick fix for this, Timothy,” Alfred said. “Master Richard is a victim of a crime. He’s been traumatised. Doing something about this will involve being there for him, day after day, for years.”

“Like you and Bruce were when he was a kid?”

“Precisely. It is a task that is never completely over.”

Tim had seen some bad stuff on Gotham’s streets. Deaths, and ugly ones too. Blood, assaults. A rape, once. He had nightmares sometimes. He had been to a psychologist, the same one he’d gone to after his mother died, telling him nothing more than that he’d witnessed a crime. He’d got some advice about how to cope with it, talked through his feelings a bit. But he’d only ever witnessed crime, and got into the odd fight as Robin. Dick - well, Dick when he was feeling better - would say that there wasn’t any _only_ about it. But still, Tim knew there was a difference between being a witness and being a victim.

Dick was a victim in this case. It made Tim uncomfortable to think of him like that. Dick was a source of strength for him. Inspiration. He’d missed the older man so _bad_ when he’d gone on that undercover mission nobody would tell him about. His advice as well as him. And the word “victim,” it just sounded so - so - _not Dick._

“I’ll be there,” Tim said. After all, Dick would be there for him if he needed it. And if he kept being Robin, he might need it. “Maybe Cass will be able to cheer him up.” Cass was good at that sort of thing, and Tim didn’t know whether it was because or in spite of her past.

The drive out to the airport was long and quiet. Neither he nor Alfred were especially talkative people. It was a comfortable quiet, if a bit gloomy. Not even Alfred was immune from Dick’s sadness. It shouldn’t be like this, Tim thought. There were _babies_. Surely someone should be happy about it.

Not that he was under the impression that babies magically fixed family problems. He was 100% sure that his birth hadn’t improved his mother’s life. Or his father’s, for that matter.

Still, he was finding he really liked the idea of being an uncle. Dick would teach his daughters to walk and then probably to tightrope-walk and flip and god knew what else, probably before any non-Grayson would even _consider_ such things, but Tim could surely teach them how to use a computer. He liked the idea of just watching them grow up.

Airport traffic around Christmas was usually bad, though the previous night’s sleet had cleared. Good thing too, otherwise Cass’s plane could have been delayed. As it was, Tim saw the big white ON SCHEDULE on the arrivals board and breathed out in relief. Cass would be home soon, and they would have another ally in trying to comfort Dick. And another set of eyes to watch over Amy and Bridget.

“Do you think they’re still talking?” Tim asked Alfred.

“Master Bruce and Master Richard? We can but hope. Master Bruce’s opinion has been of utmost importance to Master Richard for many years.”

And vice versa, though nobody had ever said so, as far as Tim knew. He had done his research. He knew that before there was a Robin, before _Dick_ , Batman had been considerably more violent in apprehending criminals.

Tim, as Robin, had done his best to curb Bruce’s self-destructive tendencies as Batman. He knew he had done well with that particular job. Batman needed a Robin. Batman needed some _one_ to care about on the street as well as someone to watch his back.

But caring about _Tim_ did not necessarily follow from that. 

At the start, Bruce had seen him as little more than an able body to fill Jason’s costume. It was only when Dick made up with him that Bruce had found it in himself to start caring about Tim Drake as more than just Robin.

He knew Bruce cared about him now. Tim was reasonably secure about his place in Bruce’s affections. He also knew that Bruce did not love him as much as he loved Dick. It wasn’t a source of resentment. Dick was Bruce’s son, or as good as, and Tim loved Dick too. There was a flip side, however. Though Bruce was doing well at the moment, sooner or later he’d have a bad day and start interpreting Dick’s self-loathing as loathing of Bruce.

And that would be bad. Just-after-Jason’s-death bad. If Tim didn’t want his work with Bruce to go to waste, they needed to help Dick.

“Ah,” said Alfred, interrupting Tim’s train of worried thoughts. “Miss Cassandra is here.”

Looking right at them from the line she was stuck in, in fact, waving at them with a whole-body enthusiasm Tim had only seen Dick match. (Steph had tried, once, and pulled a muscle.) Tim couldn’t help but smile back at her.

The wait for her to get out of the line seemed as bad as the wait for her plane, though he knew the wait for the plane had been twice as long objectively. “Hello Alfred, hello Tim,” she said brightly when she escaped. “It is good to see you both.”

“Cass,” Tim said. He accepted her hug as best he could, which wasn’t very well. Until Dick, hugs had been an unknown in his life. The same was true for Cass, but she was just better at learning physical things. She’d taken to hugging like a natural. She’d conspired with Steph enough to learn, that was for sure. It was actually kind of worrying. She even hugged Alfred now.

She wasn’t the easiest partner for Robin to work with - Robin relied on words too much to communicate easily with the current Batgirl - but she was Tim’s favourite pseudo-sister, no question.

“Let’s go home,” she said with a smile.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, everyone. Thank you so much for your feedback on the last chapter. And thanks in advance for any feedback on this one. Next chapter will be up in a week.
> 
>  
> 
> NEXT TIME:
> 
> Once they were all settled, Cass said to Dick, “You look…”
> 
> “Bad? Tired?” Dick laughed. “New parent. I’ll be tired for the next few years.”
> 
> He didn’t mention the panic attack he’d had. The one Tim had inadvertently set off. He really wanted to apologise for that.
> 
> “Not enough exercise,” Cass said. “You and me. We will spar later.”


	13. An Offer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Conversations and a hunch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No particular warnings for this chapter, just the main tags.

No sooner had Dick finished calming Amy and Bridget down from their crying jag, with Bruce’s help, they started another because they were hungry.

Walking them up and down the stairs. Why hadn’t he thought of that? He wished he had. 

At least feeding them was starting to get easier. It was almost soothing for him, too, when he did it awake and not between six and eight in the morning, the vigilante’s three a.m.. He enjoyed holding his daughters, their warm trusting weight in his arms. He loved them more every day, either naturally or because he was forcing himself to, but that didn’t matter.

“So,” Bruce said. “After the recording, then what? I take it you neither slept nor ate.”

By _the recording_ he meant Dick’s absurdly basic failure to make a copy of the confession he’d allowed himself to be beaten half to hell for. It was hard to restart the story. Easier here, in the warm kitchen with a warm baby pressed to his chest - Bridget, now - than it had been to admit it in the cave.

“I slept on the street for an hour or two,” Dick admitted. Under a newspaper. In March. It hadn’t been restful. “Then I went to see Maxine Michaels. It was her article that started everything. She was staying at a motel I knew. I wanted to ask…”

 _Why? Why did you ruin my life? Did you_ care _if you ruined my life? Did you care about my friends? Did you think that_ they _might get hurt? Did it even enter your mind?_

Dick tried again. “I wanted to ask about why she’d published. I thought she might know about you. Cass. Tim. The family.” He swallowed hard. “Blockbuster shot her before she could answer.”

One gunshot, the sound of breaking glass, and half her head had vanished in a red mist. Another person dead because they knew Dick Grayson. Another person dead because Dick Grayson had talked to them.

“You fought again,” Bruce said.

“Yeah.”

“You won.”

“Yeah.”

He took no pride in it.

“What did he say to you?”

Of course Bruce would work out that Blockbuster had spoken to him.

“He said it wouldn’t stop. What I had just seen. It wouldn’t stop. He said he’d keep killing people, anyone I spoke to, anyone I knew. And I couldn’t stop him because I couldn’t kill him. I - I knew him well enough - he meant it. He was going to do exactly what he said. I froze, Bruce, I couldn’t think.” He swallowed hard. “That’s when Tarantula showed up.”

 _Get out of the way, Nightwing._ He could almost feel the sting in his knuckles again, the burn in his muscles from exhaustion and adrenaline. His heart rate was picking up again. So was his breathing. For a moment the brightly lit kitchen started to look like a dank motel stairwell.

“Breathe,” Bruce instructed. “Count. Go on when you’re ready.”

“What’s there to say?” Dick said, after two minutes of breathing and counting. “She told me to get out of the way. I got out of the way. She shot him.”

For a second, one mad second, he considered telling Bruce the rest, about what happened on the rooftop. But just looking at Bruce’s face, dark as a stormcloud, he decided against it. Nobody had to know. There wasn’t anything to know about, really. Just another bad decision, but at least not one that had cost anyone their life.

He was asking too much of Bruce already.

“You got out of the way, having been repeatedly traumatised over a period of days,” Bruce said. “You made a mistake under unbelievably trying conditions. You know what it was and you haven't repeated it.” Bruce - _Bruce_ \- hesitated then, and added, very quietly, “Your life is no less valuable for it. Not to me. Not to anyone we know.”

Tears pricked at his eyes. He hated crying in front of Bruce. Once he became Robin, he’d done his best never to show weakness to this man if he could help it. It had been hard, the last week, over Christmas, then that short, bitter fight with Babs and the awful moment he thought he’d seen Jason. 

And the babies. Always the babies. Defenceless and needing him even though he’d never asked for them. There in his room. Disturbing his sleep. Disrupting the routines he’d rebuilt piece by piece after going back to Bludhaven. Reminding him of what happened on that rooftop when all he wanted was to forget. It was _hard_. Not crying was hard.

Bruce sighed, and looked minutely less forbidding. Dick tried not to flinch again. Why was it that Bruce _not_ hating him disturbed him as much as Bruce hating him? “It will be all right,” Bruce said. “Eventually.” He’d said the same thing when Dick had first come to live with him. It was just as not-comforting now as it had been then. In the end, he’d been right, though, it had been better. “There’s still time for you to give them up for adoption if you feel you cannot cope.”

“I’m not giving them up,” Dick said stubbornly. He’d _told_ Bruce. “They’re not going into the system.”

The man who’d raised him from an eight-year-old, who was effectively his father and had been for longer than John Grayson had, fixed him with a steady gaze. “What if I adopted them? Many parents have done so for their children over the years. They wouldn’t go into the system that way.”

He just _said it_. Just like that. Dick knew how he felt about Bruce. But Bruce - he _never_ said it. Not until just then. Dick forced himself to concentrate on the offer. The babies first. Then his own pathetic angst. It wasn’t an offer he should just dismiss, if Bruce was serious.

Amy and Bridget Wayne. He’d have two more little sisters instead of daughters. He’d be free. They’d be provided for. Loved. With someone he trusted, not abandoned to the whims of the foster system. He’d still have to deal with the memories, but most of his problems would be solved. They’d be Bruce’s.

Except.

Every time he looked at them, he knew he wouldn’t be able to see sisters. Sooner or later he’d try to be their father, rather than their brother. He knew that much about himself. And that would confuse his girls and anger Bruce.

Bruce had just _said_ …

Maybe it was because he’d lost his own parents so young, only to be so lucky as to find a new father figure shortly afterwards. He loved Cass and Tim as siblings, he’d die for them in a heartbeat. Jason too, when he was alive, even if there was other stuff in between them as well. He loved Babs. Alfred. Wally, Roy, Clark. So many others. But the parent-child relationship always seemed to him to be _special_. Now that he was on the other end that opinion wasn’t changing. “I can’t,” Dick said. “I’m their father. I’d be reminded every time I looked at them.”

“Very well,” Bruce said. “I just worry about you.”

This time, Dick couldn’t prevent a tear. How many times had he wanted Bruce to just say things like that? So many times, over the years. He’d never wanted to be wrapped up in cotton wool, as Bruce was prone to attempt when he was worried, he just wanted to _hear_ it. And once one tear had escaped, more followed. Soon he was crying miserably, like he hadn’t since his parents fell.

He tilted Bridget upright and into his shoulder so his tears wouldn’t fall on her face. Without another word, Bruce stood and came to sit down again next to him. It was more comforting than he would have thought it was. He felt like a child again. The problem was, he was supposed to be an adult. Now more than ever.

 

—

 

Cass spoke half a dozen times on the trip back, which was a personal best for her. She must have enjoyed Hong Kong a lot. When Alfred asked how her trip was, she said that she had discovered that she _liked_ airports.

“Really?” Tim asked. “You have to wait for ages and the food is terrible.”

“It makes me feel like a normal person,” Cass said happily.

Her frame of reference for certain things was very strange. Tim could, with effort, see how waiting in endless lines for boarding and baggage would make Cass feel less like a weapon and more like a human whose life was full of small hassles and inconveniences. He could definitely see her point about bad food - most people had a few experiences with cheap fast food, but not Cass. Until recently, food for her had been maintenance. Never for pleasure, never for socialising. Even fast food was a novelty to her right now.

She was also very patient. Not a question about Bruce or Dick or the babies. Tim suspected she’d rather hear it in person. Or read it off their body language.

It didn’t take a master to see how thrilled Cass was to be back. She all but leapt from the car when Alfred pulled into the garage. “I will get the bags,” she said firmly. She only had two, both of them small.

“Thank you, Miss Cassandra,” Alfred said. “I shall go inside to prepare you some better food than airport fare. Perhaps some cocoa.”

Her answering smile was wide and bright. Tim admired her for that. She’d been through so much and could still be happy. She refused his help with her bags, so he figured that it was another ‘normal person’ thing. They went in together, where there was no sign of Bruce or Dick or the babies. Maybe they’d got Amy and Bridget to sleep. He was _never_ going to see them out of uniform at this rate.

It was a bit strange that neither of the adults in the house had come to greet them. “Bruce?” Tim called. “Dick?”

No response.

“We will go upstairs,” Cass said. “Put the bags away. Bruce and Dick will find us.”

Tim followed her lead, all the way to her room. It was a crowded, cheerful sort of place. Cass plastered her walls with bright posters and filled it with stuffed toys. Her desk was all business, stacked neatly with her English books and a computer. The bags went on the bed. “Now cocoa,” Cass said.

Still no sign of Bruce or Dick as they went back down. That was the thing about Wayne Manor; it took ages to get anywhere. As they approached the kitchen, they heard Alfred moving around the kitchen. That was the thing about the _residents_ of Wayne Manor; most of them weren’t usually heard walking from place to place. It was only when they actually walked in that they found the people they were looking for.

Dick was sitting next to Bruce. Right next to him. He was the only adult - definitely the only man - Bruce would allow to sit so close for any length of time. Even his dates he tended to keep at a literal arm’s length as long and as often as possible. As Tim had half-expected, they were each holding a baby. Dick’s eyes were red, and there were faint traces of tears on his face. 

Tim knew Cass would have seen it even more quickly than he had. But she just smiled again and said, “Hello.”

“Cass,” Bruce said. “It’s good to see you.” Dick smiled like he’d smiled at Tim the day he’d visited him in Bludhaven and found him with two babies. Forced and hollow.

Cass looked at Dick, shifted her shoulders a little, and softened her smile a bit. Whatever Dick himself saw in those small changes, it made him relax an equally small amount. “May I?” she asked, leaving her hands at her sides.

“Yeah, sure,” Dick said, jerked his head at the empty seat on his other side, and made to pass Bridget over.

“How?”

Tim watched as Dick showed Cass how to support Bridget’s head. As the girl’s weight was transferred fully to Cass’ arms, she said, “Smaller than they were on Christmas.” How she could tell when she’d only seen them through a webcam, Tim had no idea, but he trusted her judgment.

“A bit, I suppose,” Dick said, and went white. “That has to be bad. Aren’t babies supposed to be fat?”

“It’s not a bad sign,” Alfred said calmly, ferrying the promised cocoa over. “They are simply adjusting to life outside their mother. Soon they will get much bigger. Why, we might even be able to tell them apart without artificial aid.”

Cass made a few cooing noises at Bridget, who’d woken with the transfer. “So small,” she said.

“Have you ever been around babies before?” Tim asked.

“No.”

“I think that describes all of us except Alfred,” Bruce said. “If you’ll excuse me for a few minutes.”

“Can I take Amy?” Tim asked. Finally! Amy was transferred to his arms the same way Bridget had been given to Cass, but unlike Bridget, Amy didn’t wake up. She did drool in her sleep a bit, but Tim had deliberately worn a sweater that could stand a bit of baby mess. She was warm to hold and Tim couldn’t help smiling at her.

Once they were all settled, Cass said to Dick, “You look…”

“Bad? Tired?” Dick laughed. “New parent. I’ll be tired for the next few years.”

He didn’t mention the panic attack he’d had. The one Tim had inadvertently set off. He really wanted to apologise for that.

“Not enough exercise,” Cass said. “You and me. We will spar later.”

“If you insist.”

It probably would do Dick some good. He normally spent a good portion of each day climbing and fighting or practicing. Now he just had the purely mental exhaustion of running around after Amy and Bridget. It didn’t sound like an adequate substitute. And Cass was so good at fighting, it would be a workout for anyone. She beat Tim nineteen times out of twenty, Dick nine out of ten, and even Bruce lost four out of five fair sparring matches with her. At least.

Once equipment or environmental stuff was in play, it was a bit more even. A bit. But on the plain, flat practice mats, Cass reigned supreme.

“Good,” Cass said, and made another cooing noise at Bridget. “Strange. Can’t read her.”

“She’s a baby,” Dick said. “How much body language can she even have, wrapped up like she is?”

“I’ll learn.”

She tickled Bridget’s chin with a long finger, and the baby gurgled happily. “I think you’re getting there already,” Tim said.

Bruce came back in with Cass’ (very weighty) Christmas present, something like two dozen beautiful illustrated editions of a range of children’s books. Tim knew Bruce had commissioned some of them especially for Cass. Bruce had to leave soon after that, since he had a few phone calls to make.

He didn’t look at Dick when he said it, though Tim would have bet his own entire Christmas haul that Bruce was talking to lawyers and bankers and the like to make sure Dick - and his children, Tim added to himself, a mental addition that would come more naturally in time - were looked after financially. 

They were all pretending as hard as they could that Dick hadn’t been crying on Bruce’s shoulder earlier. Alfred had said it earlier, and it looked like it was true. Dick would need help, and a lot of it. Dick was not equal to this challenge. Not alone.

Why did it feel like part of the ground underneath him had fallen away?

 

—

 

The phone calls as Bruce Wayne were less successful than he would have liked. His primary accountant had answered his emails, because nobody ignored emails from Bruce Wayne, with preliminary answers to his questions and the caveat that he would have to check the details once he was back from the south of France. The answer was irritating: while he _could_ give Dick the penthouse, it would be the second property Bruce had given to Dick in the space of a year. The IRS would take a long hard look at such transactions, and hit Dick with a hefty bill. As far as the law was concerned, Dick was a stranger to Bruce now that Dick was a legal adult and his guardianship ended.

The lawyers he had talked to had warned him of much the same thing. Bruce was not legally related to any Grayson. If Dick wanted to wrest every last legal right to Amy and Bridget from Flores permanently, it would be Dick’s fight alone. Dick, still a teenager, currently unemployed and not attending college, without an official family, and clearly suffering from psychological difficulties, would probably lose his children altogether if the matter came to court.

Bruce could still fund him in any endeavour to keep them, of course, but that led him right back into the problems his accountants had warned him of: Dick was not Bruce’s legal family.

He had tried to adopt Dick once, when Dick was ten, in the aftermath of the incident with Two-Face. It had been sheer practicality. Dick had not wanted to replace his parents any more at ten than he had at nine, but he had also been terrified that CPS would take him away. Bruce had done what he could, and gained a permanent guardianship over Dick’s minority that would be harder for CPS to rescind, but he had not been able to adopt. By the time Jason came along, CPS were satisfied Bruce did not pick up orphans on a whim, and let him adopt Jason, and then Cass in her turn.

Logically, he had got papers drawn up to adopt Dick as well, somewhat belatedly, but by then he and Dick were constantly at each other’s throats. When they weren’t fighting, Bruce hadn’t known how to ask. And so the papers were still in his study. They had been for a while.

Bruce did not want to open a discussion about adopting Dick by citing tax reasons.

That was all he could do about it for the moment. It would be different after New Year.

So as difficult as it was, Bruce had to shut away Dick’s problems for the moment. Blockbuster had been dead for most of a year, the immediate consequences of his death settled by now. He was somewhat relieved to know what had happened, and to know what Dick was suffering from. Gordon’s information that the Red Hood had somehow got his hands on explosives could not be ignored for anywhere near so long.

Gordon hadn’t known what sort of explosives, which made it difficult. Bruce had to just set a wide-ranging search off through his databases. From what Gordon had said, the rumours were filtering through the Red Hood’s own men, and nobody else. That generally meant a supplier outside of Gotham.

He went through the transcripts of police interviews. There were quite a few interviews, resulting in distressingly few charges.

One stood out to Batman, an interview of a young man (barely eighteen) who had responded beautifully to kind words from the officer in charge. Unsurprisingly for someone so young and new to serious criminal activity, he wasn’t trusted - but he had by chance seen his boss with a woman. Not any sort of lover, but a professional. A business associate. Exactly the sort who might help the Red Hood acquire explosives.

The description: somewhere in her early thirties. Five foot eight or five foot nine. Dark brown hair. Brown eyes. Deep tan skin, ethnicity unclear. “Foreign” accent. Fit (“ _serious_ muscle in her legs”), stunningly beautiful, and with a deportment the Red Hood’s employee had summed up as “a real stuck-up bitch.” Armed with both handgun and sword.

The young man’s ogling might yet prove important. There were no doubt thousands of people in the world who fit the description the Red Hood’s employee had given, but not so many with reason to be in contact with a Gotham drug dealer who bore a grudge against Batman and Robin. Not so many who used swords.

It was hardly certain proof, but he had a hunch. Bruce set up another search looking for the recent activities of Talia al Ghul.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you everybody for the continued feedback! I'm continually stunned. Next chapter will be up in a week, as usual!
> 
>  
> 
> NEXT TIME:
> 
> Bruce frowned at his computer screen. He hated New Year’s Eve. It was the worst night on the calendar, worse even than Halloween. New Year’s Eve, Bruce Wayne was expected to throw a party that very night - or at least to attend one, or two, or three - while at the same time rogues planned ‘fireworks’ of their own. The juggling was a nightmare.


	14. A Trusted Friend

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dick gets some exercise. Bruce plans - and acts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, this chapter contains a character experiencing a panic attack.

Sparring with Cass wasn’t something you just jumped into, unless of course it was an exercise in tackling a surprise opponent and/or in getting someone to wipe the floor with you. Dick had gone a week with only the lightest of training. He’d never been so inactive while uninjured, not since he was old enough to walk.

Even at full fitness he wanted a warmup before fighting Cass.

Tim had somehow wrangled permission from his father to stay out a bit longer. What Jack Drake didn’t know was that an hour or two after Tim got home he’d be sneaking right back again for another night out as Robin. Dick didn’t know how Tim could stand it; he’d never have managed Robin if he’d had to lie to Bruce or Alfred. While he and Cass stretched, Tim was the one looking after Amy and Bridget.

Uncle Timmy and Auntie Cass. It looked right on both of them. Already he could see Cass teaching the girls to kick properly and Tim teaching them how to hack.

Childproofing. He’d need to do that too. But then, if it was Bruce’s penthouse he was going to be living in for the next few years, he shouldn’t be surprised to discover if Bruce had already put in a massive order for the place to be made as toddler-safe as an apartment could be. Of course he would have. Dick couldn’t even be trusted to organise that much.

He was already getting distracted, which he couldn’t afford to be if he wanted to make a decent showing. Cass was doing her own stretches, wolfish smile on her face. She liked to spar too, especially just for fun, with only usual training injuries at risk.

“Ready?” she asked.

“Ready,” Dick said, and tried to sound more confident than he felt.

Cass made the first move. A testing strike to his right side. He fended it off, not as easily as he might like. It was followed up by a kick, also aimed to the right, at his knee. He dodged, and struck back at Cass’ left shoulder. She twisted away, dropping under the blow, and kicking out hard at his ankles in the same movement. That kick connected, and Dick momentarily lost his balance. He turned it into a dive roll and only barely made it out of her range before she struck out again at his core. If she’d connected, he’d’ve gone down straight away.

He had to keep out of her ideal range. That was how Bruce usually won, when he won. Range. Weight, too. Cass was fast, and amazing at predicting an opponent’s moves, but one or two solid hits on her would put her down. If you could get those hits. Easier said than done.

They circled, Dick keeping Cass at his maximum reach. When she was least stable on her feet, Dick lunged. He wasn’t at his best, however, and Cass caught his arm easily and locked it. He tapped out with his free hand, giving the first round to her.

They reset. One round wasn’t enough to settle things. Nor was it what Cass would call ‘enough exercise.’

This time Cass came in low to start, fighting from the ground. Dick had never been the best at that. He preferred to fight from the air. He flipped up and over, lashing down with a heel. It glanced off Cass’ hip as she twisted to avoid the full force of the blow. Dick sprung up again, getting less air than he had with his initial leap, but more horizontal distance. Quick as a flash (though not as quick as a Flash), Cass darted after him, not letting him put that space between them.

If that was how she wanted to play it, he’d have to make it a contest of strength. He went for a grapple and caught Cass around her waist, pinning one arm, but the other was still free, as were her legs. She flipped them both so he was under her - that would cost her, it couldn’t have been easy to shift that much weight actively resisting - jabbed her free arm into him until he had to let go, and pinned him to the mat.

For just an instant, Dick froze. His lungs seized mid-breath, his heart started beating hard against his sternum, suddenly too large for his chest.

The last time a woman, any woman, had been on top of him it had been on that rooftop. He could smell Cass’ floral deodorant, similar to the type Tarantula used. It was always gloomy and slightly damp in the cave, not too far off the dim lighting of the motel and the humidity between the raindrops that night.

Panicking, and knowing Cass would be able to see and feel his panic, Dick searched for differences before he got lost in the similarities. Cass was lighter than Tarantula. He was wearing his workout gear, not his Nightwing uniform. The mats were nothing like the rooftop. That. That was helpful. If he was back on the rooftop, his back would be scratched up from the fights and the friction. Instead all he felt beneath him was textured padding.

Cass jumped off him as if he was burning hot. _Poisonous, don’t touch - don’t touch me…_ “Dick?”

“It’s nothing,” he said, still lying on his back. There was a roof overhead. He was underground, under Gotham’s nicest suburb, not stories above a seedy Bludhaven road. It wasn’t the same. “Go again?”

“Okay,” Cass said. Her expression, however, was crinkled with concern.

She went easy on him the rest of their sparring session. He could tell. But then, he was definitely not at his best. Not after that. Leftover panic was still racing through his veins. The adrenaline had a cruel edge to it.

Eventually, she called a halt. “We will do this again,” she said, watching as he warmed down. “It is good for you.”

“Yeah.” Ignore the panic. The burn in his muscles felt good. He really did need to find the time to exercise more. Alfred had set up cribs down here already, rather pointedly. In time Dick strongly suspected that a corner of the Batcave might well turn into a daycare. They seemed to be doing pretty well with Tim, who was alternating working on case files with entertaining Amy and Bridget.

Warmed down, he walked over to join them. Remembering what Bruce had said about touching them, he made himself put a hand on each daughter’s head in turn, cupping their plump faces. They blinked up at him when he made contact.

It felt good. Some of the awfulness of the adrenaline drifted away. For a second, Dick felt like a proper new father, just happy to have his children.

 

—

 

Bruce frowned at his computer screen. He hated New Year’s Eve. It was the worst night on the calendar, worse even than Halloween. New Year’s Eve, Bruce Wayne was expected to throw a party that very night - or at least to attend one, or two, or three - while at the same time rogues planned ‘fireworks’ of their own. The juggling was a nightmare.

This year, with terrible timing, he was hosting. At Wayne Manor itself. His blood pressure went up every time he had any sort of social event in his house, but it had to be done every so often. If he didn’t, people would start to think that Bruce Wayne had something to hide.

The doors to the family quarters were always locked those nights, with extra security protocols in place. But this year…

The Red Hood concerned Batman. He’d played with Robin like a cat with a mouse, and spoke as though he had a personal vendetta. He had got nothing back on either bombs or on the mystery business associate. Not to mention the Red Hood’s choice of moniker was likely to attract retaliation at some point, at some suitable holiday or public event. Like New Year’s Eve.

Keeping Amy and Bridget Grayson secret until Dick was ready to tell concerned Bruce Wayne. There were still unofficial _expectations_ of Dick, including for him to show up to at least some of the big events Bruce hosted. Like a New Year’s Eve party in Wayne Manor.

Any number of things could go wrong, and Bruce was sitting here reviewing the _catering plans_.

Had Dick remembered about the party? He doubted it. According to Tim, Dick hadn’t remembered to pack things for himself when he left his apartment. Bruce made a note. Dick would have to go get something suitable to wear to a party, at _very_ short notice. It could be done. Not cheaply, but that wasn’t an object to Bruce.

Dick would also need a babysitter. Unless he wasn’t well enough to attend. That was a possibility, though he had bounced back well from yesterday’s trauma. Or he appeared to have bounced back well. Dick was extremely accomplished at certain types of deception. Concealing his pain, physical or emotional, was one of them. However, even if it _was_ an act, at least Dick was feeling well enough _to_ act.

Bruce was quite aware it was not what most people would consider an encouraging sign. If Dick wasn’t well enough to go, Bruce wouldn’t make him, though he strongly felt it would be better for him to do as many ‘normal’ things as possible.

Catering reviewed, he went down to the cave. He wanted to check on Dick, his children, and the case files for the Red Hood. The sooner the man was in custody the safer they’d be. The safer _Robin_ would be. Bruce still didn’t know if the Red Hood had a similar grudge against Nightwing, but he didn’t intend to find out.

Nightwing himself was down there, daughters in their cribs, wrapped up warm against the chill of the cave while their father trained. “Hey, Bruce,” he said. He sounded more himself than he had since he arrived.

Not to mention that he was speaking from a perfect handstand on a single narrow beam. _Much_ more like Dick. Lie or no lie.

“Dick,” he replied, stopping briefly to check on his granddaughters. Asleep, both of them. “Have you remembered the New Year’s Eve party tomorrow?”

Dick dropped out of his handstand and moved to a horizontal position across the beam. “No,” he said. “Am - am I still invited? Do you think I even should go at all?”

“Of course you're invited, provided you get your formalwear situation sorted. And a babysitter.” Bruce hesitated, because he didn’t really want to make this suggestion, “Perhaps a member of the Kent family. As for whether you  _should_ attend...aside from one patrol, you have spent almost the entire week in arm's reach of your children. It will not hurt you, or them, for you to attend a party for a few hours. I agree with Alfred. In the long run it will be better for you to continue to do things that don't involve them on a regular basis." Especially without a partner to help him. He had friends and family to help cover for him while he maintained a connection to the world outside his offspring. He ought to avail himself of their services, willingly given.

Clark would never let him forget that he’d put Superman and family at the top of the preferred babysitters list, but when it came right down to it, he did trust Superman’s discretion, and that of his parents. (Superboy and Supergirl, much less so.) Dick liked them. Amy and Bridget would be safe with them.

Dick just frowned. “I don’t really want to call up and say ‘Hey, Uncle Clark, here are my kids, do you mind babysitting them tomorrow night?’ It seems rude.”

“You know that the very first thing out of his mouth when he hears will be a request to meet them in person.”

“Yeah, but I don’t want to take advantage of that. Especially if he has plans already. It’s New Year’s Eve.”

“None of the rest of the family will be available. If you don’t attend this party, there will be questions asked, some of them by magazine writers.” He didn’t have to say more than that; the tabloids and the gossip magazines had always had an interest in Dick, despite (because of?) Bruce’s best efforts to keep him away from any press. His becoming a single teenage father would likely make the front pages of such publications. “If you do attend, you won’t be able to look after them either. Clark will help you, one way or another, and we can convey our apologies for the abrupt introduction later.”

Dick’s mouth quirked into a happier position, even as he moved his legs underneath him to sit on the narrow beam like anyone else would sit on a wide bench. “I should give him a fruit basket?”

“If you like,” Bruce said.

Dick’s gaze went to the screen where Batman received Justice League communications. “I better get to it, then,” he said.

His dismount from the beam was not quite as flashy as Bruce would have expected, but Dick did at least manage a single somersault. Good signs. Bruce looked back towards his files and started making notes (also on ordering a fruit basket) as Dick retrieved his phone and started to dial. He didn’t want to unnerve Dick by staring at him.

It was only a few seconds before Bruce heard, slightly distorted over the speakerphone (Bruce interpreted _that_ gesture as wanting his moral support), “Hey, Dick. Belated merry Christmas. Is that Bruce I hear in the background?”

Super-hearing. It never failed to be annoying. Over the phone it was limited (“limited” was a word he used in its loosest sense) to what the phone itself could pick up and transmit, but that would be more than enough to let Superman hear him typing. Possibly his breathing as well. He had spent _far_ too much time around the Kryptonian if the man could recognise him by either.

“Yes, and you too, Uncle Clark,” Dick said. He sounded like he was choking up. And if Bruce could hear it, Superman could too.

“Dick? Is something wrong?”

“No, no,” said Dick. “It’s just…big. Important. I don’t quite know how to start.”

“Take your time,” Superman said, in a voice that rang with kindness and patience. “I’m not going to hang up on you. Would you like me to fly over?”

“No. No, it’s okay, not…not today. But. Are you busy tomorrow evening?”

“I’m not really a New Year’s Eve sort of guy,” Kent said. “And Lois is working. I thought I’d get out of town, maybe drop in on Ma and Pa, avoid the big parties. It’s not like I’m going to miss the fireworks. Did you need me for something?”

Dick looked towards the babies, still peacefully sleeping. “Yeah. I - I kind of need a babysitter.”

There was a short silence. “A babysitter,” Kent said. “I’d be glad to, but…”

“I got a bit of a surprise last week.”

“So the situation is what you’re implying? You’ve got a permanent addition to the family?”

“Yeah.”

When Dick had told _him_ , he’d been shaking and terrified. Bruce, to his shame, had been angry and disappointed and unable to hide it. But Superman, _Superman_ , he immediately said warmly, “Well, congratulations, then. I’d bring you a cigar if I didn’t think Bruce would throw it away. Boy or girl?”

Dick actually smiled. Bruce didn’t even need to look over to see that, but he did anyway. “Girls, actually. Twins.”

“Wow. I bet you’re run off your feet.”

“I’ve got help.” Out of the corner of his eye Bruce saw Dick’s glance his way. “Good help.”

Kent laughed at that. “But you couldn’t get out of the New Year’s Eve party?”

“Not without people asking questions I’m not ready to answer.”

“Ah. No, I understand completely.” A self-deprecating chuckle, though Bruce disliked it when Kent implicitly compared himself to the vultures that wrote for the tawdrier publications. He might find Kent frustrating, but he was nothing like _that_. “What time do you want me to come over? I assume I’ll be looking after them downstairs.”

“If you don’t mind.” Dick glanced over at Bruce again. “Some time around seven? And convey my apologies to your parents?”

Kent laughed again. “It wasn’t a real party I was planning on. The cows don’t sleep in on the New Year, so Ma and Pa don’t usually stay up New Year’s Eve either. They’ll understand, and I can always visit them beforehand, or the day after tomorrow. You’re not disrupting anything.”

“I’ll make sure you get a good dinner then. Alfred-cooked.”

“How could I possibly say no to that? You’ve got your babysitter. I can’t wait to see them, Dick. Seven o’clock tomorrow. I’ll be there.”

“See you. Thanks, Uncle Clark.” Dick hung up with a click. He looked like a weight had been taken off him, and Bruce was sick with jealousy. Bruce had only succeeded in making his son more anxious about everything, no matter what he offered.

Dick said, “Guess I better get my tux sorted then.” He hesitated, and asked, “Would you look after them while I do that?”

“Of course I will.”

“Thanks, Bruce.” Another hesitation, and then he said, all in a rush, “You know you’re - you’re their _grandpa_ , right? Or as close as they’ll ever get - I mean, I know - after Jason, I said some horrible things, but I didn’t mean - I really do - you know I love you. I know you said you’d never try and replace my dad, but I - you didn’t replace him, but. You’ve been a father to me anyway. So. You’re their grandpa. If that’s okay with you.”

He had to say something. He _had_ to say something, _now_. Bruce was bad with emotions, but even he could tell that if he didn’t do this well something would break between them. He’d keep his lieutenant, and lose his son.

This was probably the right time. Dick had opened the door. And he didn’t have to say a damn thing about tax.

His voice came out rusty as he said, “I have not been a perfect father. Nor even a good one. However. There is an envelope in the top drawer of my desk, for you. If you would read the contents and - sign, I would be honoured.”

Dick said nothing. Bruce _knew_ he understood what those papers were. He could see it on his face. Shock, smoothed away. Like Bruce had punched him in the stomach unexpectedly.

“No disrespect intended to your parents,” Bruce said, too late. “You don’t have to do anything about it if you don’t want to.”

Silence, in which Bruce could only hear the beating of his heart and his brain’s insistence, _you’ve done this wrong, you’re going to lose him._

“I want to,” Dick said at last. Bruce’s heart gave one last emphatic _thud_ before starting to settle back into a more regular pattern. “Formalwear can wait another few minutes.” He left, and returned a few minutes later with an envelope, _the_ envelope, and a pen. The paper was clean, but no longer entirely crisp. Bruce had taken the papers out so many times and thought about how to ask that the edges had softened from handling. Without hesitation, Dick signed his name in a familiar loopy scrawl, and then smiled lopsidedly up at him.

And with that - Bruce’s own signature had long since been applied to the document - he officially had another son. If only he could solve all his problems so easily.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks everyone for all your kind words, and your kudos/bookmarks! Next chapter will be up in a week, as usual!
> 
>  
> 
> NEXT TIME:
> 
> “There you are,” Bruce said. He was likewise presentable, though he hadn’t started with the Brucie act yet. “Guests are starting to arrive. Are you sure you can do this?”
> 
> Cass, still in home clothes since she would be taking over patrol for them in an hour, dug an elbow into Bruce’s side. “He is here. No fretting.”
> 
> Dick was glad she had confidence in him, at least. He wished he had as much. “I’ve got this, B,” he said.


	15. The Party Starts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While some people party, others work.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't think there's anything to warn about that isn't covered by the tags. Let me know if there's something, though, and I'll add it.

The last two days had been fairly good for Dick. Cass had been right, more exercise _was_ doing him good. He didn’t feel quite up to going on patrol (too risky, what if he panicked again?), but he felt he was about ready to face one of Bruce’s parties. Bruce’s parties might be a lot less fun than patrol, but they were also usually a lot less dangerous.

More importantly, he was ready to face Uncle Clark.

“Okay, Amy, just hold still…”

And if he had to get dressed up, so did they. Bruce hadn’t got those superhero onesies just to see them stay in their packaging. No, those things were meant to actually be worn by a baby. Dick just so happened to have some prospective models.

“There we go.” 

He was getting much better at changing them. Diapers and clothing both. It was a good thing, since he’d be doing it for a while. Having wrangled Amy into the Superman onesie, he proceeded to wrangle her sister into the Batman one. B for Bridget, B for Batman. It’d have to do. He was still terrified of getting them mixed up.

There was a knock at his door, and Alfred said, “Master Richard, Mister Kent has arrived downstairs.” With so many hired hands on the property, and soon guests as well, they didn’t want to risk inviting him upstairs. Clark understood. Dick had already seen the receipt for the fruit basket. (Dick would have got him a bottle of something nice, but Clark didn’t drink much.) Hanging out alone in a cave on New Year’s Eve was Bruce’s idea of a good time, and nobody else’s.

“I’ll be right there, Alfie!” he called back. More quietly, knowing that there was only one person who’d hear it, he said, “Hey, Uncle Clark, just getting them dressed.” Bri really didn’t want to put her left arm through the appropriate sleeve. He was eventually victorious. By contrast, getting them into their carriers was a relatively simple task.

Clark was trying to chat to Bruce when Dick arrived downstairs. The key word there was ‘trying.’ Bruce, as usual, was doing his best to put off going upstairs to get changed for the party. That and he just really liked working on case files.

“Uncle Clark!”

“Dick! And children!” Before Dick could blink, Clark was there, helping with the carrier. It wasn’t so much heavy as bulky and awkward, especially with two infants to be very careful of. Then Clark saw the outfits Dick had put his girls in, and started to laugh. Even Bruce found it hard to be disapproving faced with that laugh. “Who bought those?” Clark asked.

Dick grinned. It felt good. “Believe it or not, Bruce did. Christmas present.”

He could _feel_ Bruce’s glare fixed on him. Not a bad one, just the you-punk-kid-you’re-ruining-my-rep glare. Dick ignored him in favour of introductions. Clark, of course, asked if he could hold them.

“You’re the one babysitting,” Dick said. 

He took a long time to decide which one to pick up first, but eventually settled on Bridget. If she looked small when Bruce held them, she looked positively tiny when Clark did. Amy would seem no bigger in Clark’s arms. “Been a while since I held a baby,” he said, smiling down at Amy.

“You didn’t catch one thrown from a skyscraper yesterday?” Bruce asked sourly.

“Not for at least a week,” Clark said, with characteristic refusal to let Bruce’s abrasiveness faze him. Not much visibly ruffled Clark’s feathers. “How old are they?”

“Also about a week.” Dick sobered. “I got a call out of the blue telling me I’d been named as the father. Their mother was already in labour.”

“I take it she isn’t in the picture.”

“Never,” Dick said, voice going from sober to harsh. “I am never going to let her touch them.”

Clark blinked. Behind him, Bruce allowed a small amount of approval to show on his face. It was good to know that his new-minted adoptive father was on his side in this. “If you ever need my help, you know how to get in touch,” Clark said.

With an effort, Dick forced his thoughts away from Tarantula, and smiled at his favourite not-uncle. “You are helping. I hate to just dump them on you and run, especially since I didn’t even tell you about them until yesterday, but I really need to go get changed.” He gestured down at the worn clothing he was wearing. “It’s okay for them to spit up on _this_ , but Bruce wouldn’t be real thrilled if I showed up to the party with baby crap all over my tux.”

“Forget Bruce,” Clark said, to another scowl from the man in question. “I’d be more worried about Alfred.”

Forty-five minutes later, Dick was showered, shaved, mostly dressed, and working on his stupid bow tie. He knew how to tie one, of course, that was Alfred’s doing. Even _Bruce_ knew how to tie a bow tie. Properly. Upon pain of mysterious Alfred-imposed and -devised punishment nobody had yet been brave enough to risk.

Richard Grayson (still Grayson, even now he’d been adopted into the Wayne family officially) was now officially presentable. The next part was to actually make it through the party. He’d been to Bruce’s parties before. He could manage.

He just kept thinking it all the way downstairs, through the veritable army of caterers and serving staff that had descended on Wayne Manor. With the babies downstairs, it almost felt like a normal New Year. Richard Grayson and his nice clothes going to play at being a spoiled rich boy for the other spoiled rich boys. Now that he was over eighteen he would be expected to flirt. That would be hard. Between all the reminders of Tarantula and all the reminders of Babs, he wasn’t sure he had it in him.

Needs must. If he didn’t flirt at least a little, people would ask questions. If flirting felt uncomfortable (and why would it? He’d always enjoyed a bit of harmless flirting in the past), fending off questions about whether he had a _girlfriend_ would feel even worse. Either way he was going to get hit on.

Sooner or later, it would come out that he had children. Dick didn’t intend to hide them away forever, and so eventually there would be articles and insinuations in the various gossip magazines. They just didn’t have to find out _today_. Dick wasn’t ready for that.

“There you are,” Bruce said. He was likewise presentable, though he hadn’t started with the Brucie act yet. “Guests are starting to arrive. Are you sure you can do this?”

Cass, still in home clothes since she would be taking over patrol for them in an hour, dug an elbow into Bruce’s side. “He is here. No fretting.”

Dick was glad she had confidence in him, at least. He wished he had as much. “I’ve got this, B,” he said.

Bruce looked him over. “Very well. You know what to do. And, Dick, if you need to leave at any point, do so. This is not more important than your wellbeing. A simple appearance will appease most of the people here.”

By ‘what to do,’ Bruce meant the standard guest attack pattern. That had been what Jason called it, anyway. Waynes, and by extension Wayne-adoptees, did not make a flashy entrance into their own parties. They infiltrated from the sides, making guests feel welcome, and acted as if they had always been hosting. Dramatic entrances were for other people’s parties.

He didn’t get a dozen steps before he was spotted.

“Richard! How wonderful to see you, darling!”

Expectations, Dick reminded himself, and pasted on his best smile. The show must go on. An awful cliche, but no less true for that.

 

—

 

The clock tower - or Clock Tower, she’d taken to capitalising it, since it was that sort of place - was exactly what Barbara had always wanted from a hideout. Never before had she had space for _all_ her computer stuff, and all the computer stuff she could ever possibly want. It was way different to the tiny college dorm room she’d been working out of before the Joker had shot her. Her dad was studiously avoiding asking where she’d got the money, too, which was nice.

Doing all the wiring had been a job and a half. She’d done it, though, with only a bit of help from Robin and the new Batgirl, for those places she couldn’t get to in a wheelchair. Everything was finally ready. From midnight, Oracle would be live.

_Take that, you bastard. You didn’t kill me. You didn’t even_ stop _me._

She sat at the central console of her workstation, hoping that it would be just like she planned. To her surprise, a notification popped up. Bruce. Of course. Looked like he wanted to know about someone calling himself the Red Hood, who’d shot Robin on Christmas Eve. Non-fatally, not even injuring him beyond a few bruises, but ever since Jason, Bruce had come down like a ton of bricks on anyone who so much as breathed at Robin too threateningly.

To be completely fair, he’d always come down like a ton of bricks on anyone who breathed at Robin too threateningly, no matter who Robin was at the time. The weight just seemed to drop faster now, and the margin of ‘too threateningly’ smaller.

A look at Bruce’s own notes on the case revealed that ‘Red Hood’ had been the Joker’s first alias. Barbara shivered despite herself, and despite the additional note that this Red Hood was definitely _not_ the Joker.

Oh, and he was worried that the Red Hood was bringing bombs into Gotham. Possible al Ghul connection.

Time for a test drive. It was close enough to her planned start date anyway. She couldn’t wait any longer. Time get to get into this. Time to be useful again.

Surveillance footage up. Christmas Eve. Bruce had sent her the location of Red Hood’s attack. Barbara noted down the number of people he appeared to be supervising and the company the truck belonged to. A check in with the police showed that it hadn’t been reported stolen. More surveillance, following Red Hood after Batman had swooped in to save Robin. No sound and bad angles meant she couldn’t tell what was said for herself, and had to refer to the report Robin had given Batman. Painstakingly, Barbara followed Red Hood from rooftop to rooftop and camera to camera until he went into a dingy apartment building and stayed there.

She hacked into the building records and pulled up the blueprints from the planning department. The floor Red Hood had entered were all bedsits, the rooms too small to be a proper base, while the records for the rooms around it indicated that the nominal residents were still alive and well and actual human beings who definitely were not the Red Hood. She cross-checked credit card history and their bank transactions just to make sure. Faking a good purchase history was difficult - it was amazing how often people forgot that their faked person would need toilet paper. Sure enough, unless the Red Hood had fabricated three years of regular purchasing at one store and nineteen months of regular purchasing at another store, plus two separate and consistent track records of online purchasing, plus a court appearance over a road rage-related charge, these were real people neighbouring him.

It was just a safe room then, good for keeping a bit of spare equipment, a change of clothing, and a bed in case you _needed_ to crash.

He’d paid the rent in cash. Unsurprising. At least he hadn’t bought the apartment straight out. The name he’d given was Mike Taylor. Barbara set alerts for the name, though since it was so common she expected several hits.

While that ran, Barbara pulled up yet more surveillance footage. There were blind spots in some key areas around the building, no doubt a reason why the Red Hood had chosen it for a safe room in the first place. No reason not to try and spot him leaving, though. Sometimes people got careless, especially after they thought they’d lost their pursuers.

She’d gone through an hour of footage when she heard tapping on her window. A very specifically-timed tapping. “It’s open,” Barbara called.

There was a bit of clattering - a courtesy from one vigilante to another - and Batgirl was at her side. Cass was in costume, full face mask and all. Barbara had to try hard not to move in a way that would reveal her envy. She didn’t want Cass to feel unwelcome or unwanted, because she wasn’t. Still, Barbara _missed_ the cape and _missed_ being the one to climb through windows.

“I thought you were in Hong Kong,” Barbara said. “Skipping Bruce’s NYE party anyway?”

“Came back early,” Cass said. “Heard about the babies. Superman is babysitting.”

Barbara stilled her reaction as best she could. A harder reaction to suppress even than her jealousy of Cass’ mobility. The babies. _Tarantula’s_ babies. _Dick’s_ babies. She still couldn’t believe he’d _slept_ with that woman.

In all honesty, she’d thought he loved her more than that. If he’d indulged in a bit of petty revenge, he’d certainly succeeded. Her feelings were hurt. Her pride was hurt. It was all the worse because it wasn’t as though she’d broken up with him because she hadn’t loved him, God knew. She did love him. She just couldn’t be with him. She thought he’d understood that.

Apparently not.

There were a hundred, a thousand little things. Most of them weren’t Dick’s fault. Most of them were the _Joker’s_ fault. But she still couldn’t date him when she got jealous every time he casually climbed in or out of her window, or vaulted over her sofa to get to the kitchen quicker, or just did his stretches in front of her in the morning. She couldn’t date him when people on the street looked at her with pity and made her feel small - and unattractive - and looked at them together with bewilderment. She definitely couldn’t date him if he erred on the side of treating her like glass.

She couldn’t deal with his abandonment issues and perpetual Bruce-related drama while trying to rebuild her life from the ground up.

If she couldn’t deal with his issues before, she certainly couldn’t now. She was a few months shy of twenty-one years old. She wasn’t ready to be a mother. Dick had better be ready to be a father. They were done as girlfriend and boyfriend. For good.

“You are angry,” Cass said. “Why?”

There was no point lying flat out, not to Cass, but nor did she have to tell the whole truth. Cass was only fifteen, Dick was her brother, and some of it really wasn't any of her business. “I don’t care for the mother.”

Fortunately for her temper, Cass nodded. “Nobody said anything. I did not think I should ask.”

“She’s not a nice woman,” Barbara said. _She tried to kill me. What the hell, Dick?_

“Are you angry with Dick?”

Cass really was very perceptive. “Yes,” Barbara admitted. “Very.”

Once again, Cass nodded. No judgment, not that Barbara could see. There was no making out Cass’ expression under that mask of hers, but really, Cass wasn’t the sort to judge. If Barbara was angry with Dick, Barbara was angry with Dick. “I will ask Bruce instead,” she said.

Barbara could have let her leave. Maybe she _should_ have let her leave. The problem was, she still loved Dick. “Is there a problem?” Aside from the obvious.

Cass shook her head. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

“You won’t.” She sighed. “I care. I’m just angry. Besides, I don’t want to hurt you, either.” Whatever was going on, it was obviously bothering Cass if she trekked all the way out to talk to Barbara. Normally she’d go to Steph or Bruce with her problems. Barbara knew she filled a more older sisterly role in Cass’ life than Steph did, and talking to an older sister was different to talking to your dad or your BFF.

There was still nothing on the surveillance. No sign of anyone. Cass didn’t leave, didn’t speak. Barbara waited for her to say something.

“I sparred with Dick earlier,” Cass said at last. “I pinned him. He panicked.”

“That doesn’t sound like him.” It really didn’t. She’d sparred with Dick hundreds of times and pinned him down a few dozen, both in and out of a training context. Never once had he shown the slightest bit of alarm. “What do you mean, panicked?”

“Fast heartbeat. Fast breathing. Eyes -“ Cass made the indistinct noise that meant she didn’t know a word, and flicked her fingers this way and that at eye level to depict a gaze darting frantically around, searching for a way out. “Didn’t move. What should I do?”

Barbara had seen Dick like that once. Only once. When they’d watched _The Lion King_ together. Part of _The Lion King_. They hadn’t made it into the film’s second act, for obvious reasons. She’d never changed DVDs so fast.

“Okay, that you really do need to tell Bruce,” she said. Dick wouldn’t, and nobody could afford for Nightwing to have a panic attack and freeze up when someone pinned him down. One way or another, Bruce would get Dick to get help. But why was Dick freezing up in the first place?

Her first thought was that something happened while he was undercover with Deathstroke, but the second thought mostly dismissed that possibility. The mercenary had a possessive streak a mile wide. If anyone had traumatised Dick on that mission it was Deathstroke himself. Restraints weren’t his usual style, though. He was more likely to have straight up pummeled Dick into submission. That didn’t rule him out entirely, however; that exact same possessive streak meant that he would likely do whatever he felt was necessary to keep control of Dick.

The other major possibility was that it was related to the Blockbuster incident. There was something about it he wasn’t telling her, when he’d been quite open about what he’d done while undercover. The things he’d stolen, the people he’d hospitalised, all of it.

_It wasn’t like that_ , Dick’s voice protested in the back of her mind.

“Babs,” Cass said. “Look. Second screen.”

Barbara looked up. There, where Cass was pointing, was a young man wearing the same jacket as the Red Hood had been wearing. It wasn’t a very good angle, but even so she could see he was dark-haired, and in his late teens rather than his early twenties.

He also bore an uncanny resemblance to a boy she’d known once. A boy who should have had a chance to grow to see seventeen, but hadn’t. No known biological family, so it was unlikely to be a brother or a cousin. As he turned his head, his open coat shifted and Barbara could make out a mole on his neck - the Robin costume had always hidden it, but she’d known him outside of Robin.

“Tell Batman,” Oracle said, heart in her mouth. “Go. Now. Never mind the party. You have to tell him. The Red Hood is Jason Todd.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks everyone for the comments, kudos, and bookmarks! Next chapter will be up next week!
> 
>  
> 
> NEXT TIME:
> 
> For whatever reason, the cloying scents of perfume and booze had been making him edgy. Just a few minutes away from everyone else and he could face another two hours. He’d hit a rhythm once he’d been in there, even as his mental energy drained away. A few minutes, a bit of water on his face, maybe a cup of coffee -
> 
> His bedroom door was closed.
> 
> Dick froze. He always left his door open.


	16. Unwelcome Guest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's possibly the least fun Bruce and Dick have ever had at one of these parties.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No chapter-specific warnings except for Bruce quietly displaying some of the social prejudices of his class.

Dick had not, in the end, managed to escape women asking whether he had a girlfriend. At the moment it was Estella Corbin attempting to press herself to his side. She’d followed up her inquiry about whether he had a girlfriend with, “I can fix that problem, you know. Now that you’re legal and all.”

He had laughed, because that was what was expected from his own society persona. Still, he made sure to keep the arm she’d seized some ways from his body. He just didn’t want an adult tucked up against him right now. He hoped he was being subtle enough. “I’m all right, thank you,” he said. “Takes all the fun out of it, if you know what I mean.”

The last thing he wanted right now was a fling.

By eleven, he needed a break. He extricated himself from Estella with a wink and a smile and headed upstairs. He would have rather gone downstairs, to see how Clark was going with his daughters, but Bruce’s security protocols were crystal clear. While there were guests in the Manor, nobody went near the Bat-facilities accessible from the house itself.

He headed towards his room instead, trying to get the cramped, overheated atmosphere in the ballroom out of his head. For whatever reason, the cloying scents of perfume and booze had been making him edgy. Just a few minutes away from everyone else and he could face another two hours. He’d hit a rhythm once he’d been in there, even as his mental energy drained away. A few minutes, a bit of water on his face, maybe a cup of coffee -

His bedroom door was closed.

Dick froze. He always left his door open. Neither Bruce nor Alfred ever touched it if they didn’t think there was something badly wrong, not from the first day he’d arrived as a kid, Bruce saying that the positioning of the door was his choice. (Bruce, strange man that he was, thought nothing of pulling his medical records and hacking his computer but usually drew the line at snooping through his physical possessions.) Cass wouldn’t touch his door either. Tim might, he always closed doors behind him, but Tim hadn’t been in the Manor today.

He crept towards his inexplicably closed door on silent feet. If you knew where the floorboards were, it wasn’t hard. If you didn’t, it was all but impossible. What was harder to still was his breath, rasping in his throat. Someone had bypassed all of Bruce’s security, which was a lot of security to bypass, and gone into his room.

Carefully, soundlessly, he pushed the door open. What he saw there instantly made him see red.

There was a man standing over the cribs, his back to the door. Tall, bulky, dark-haired. He hadn’t noticed Dick come in.

Forget being Richard for all those party guests. There was a stranger interfering with his children’s things. 

He didn’t bother with a warning. Instead, he launched himself across the room. It was difficult in a tuxedo, but not impossible, and his desperate tackle knocked the intruder away from the cribs and onto the bed. Without a pause for thought he drove his fist into the other man’s kidney. A deep voice cried out in surprise and pain, and the intruder tried to twist around to strike back. Dick growled, grabbed leather-clad shoulders, and slammed the man face-first into the mattress.

A heel kicked back, aimed at Dick’s knee. Dick turned so the blow glanced off thigh muscle. The other man, whoever it was, was taller and broader than he was, possibly stronger. Leverage was everything in this fight - Dick had to make physics and anatomy work for him. Dick pressed down with everything he had, twining his own legs around the other’s and preventing him from pushing up in a coordinated way. 

His jacket tore at the seams under his arms. He didn’t care. He could feel a gun pressing into his hip, and a boot knife into his calf muscle. This man had brought a gun into the room where his daughters slept.

You’re not taking them. I’m not losing them. Dick concentrated. Tensed. He had to stop as soon as this guy was unconscious. No further. No killing, especially not in Bruce’s home. This was an intruder. He could get the police on this.

Then the man gasped out recognisable words, muffled by the mattress.

“Fuck, Goldie, get off me!”

Familiar. Impossible.

Jason.

Impossible!

Dick let go as if he’d been burned, scrambling back almost all the way across the room. Jason. Jay. It couldn’t be. Jay was dead. Nearly two years dead by now. This man - he looked like Jason might have. So like Jason might have. All those strong features that Dick’s little brother might have grown into, this man wore well. He dressed like Jason used to, heavy boots and leather jacket. 

And he spoke like Jason. Voice broken now, but only one person had ever called him Goldie. Clayface wouldn’t know that sort of detail. None of the shapeshifters he’d ever encountered would know that detail.

“Jay?” Dick asked. “Jason?” It was. Somehow. Jason, all grown up. He looked older than seventeen. Older than Dick himself, to tell the truth. He had bulkier muscle than Dick had when he was that age (bulkier muscle than Dick had now), and old hard eyes, greener and angrier than Dick remembered. “But you’re dead.”

Jay sneered at him. Strangely, that made him look younger again, though that could have been because Dick had so often seen a younger Jay wearing that exact same sneer. “Yet you’re still talking to me. That’s why you’re the pretty one, not the smart one.”

Dick shook off the insult. It was Jason; Jason was like that. Jason was alive. It wasn’t a ghost, he couldn’t get into a brawl with a ghost. This person, if it was Jason, and he looked like Jason and sounded like Jason, was alive. “How - why - I’ll go get Bruce. Alfred. They’ll be so happy, Jay, you don’t even - what happened - how -“

The click of a gun cocking stopped him in his tracks. “Happy?” Jason asked, voice dangerously flat and quiet. The gun was also level. “He replaced me. He forgot me. He didn’t recognise me when he ran into me in the street. Neither did you, but then, you didn’t look real sane at the time. Then again, I know exactly what you thought of me. I thought Bruce cared more.”

“What?” Bruce would never forget Jason. Not ever. 

“Christmas Eve. He damn near walked into me without noticing. He didn’t even realise, not even when I started getting obvious about following him, just to see if he’d pick up on it. I’ve been following you people everywhere for weeks. He just stumbled into the nearest shop for babies, bought out half the store, and came straight back here.” Jason sneered at him again. “I thought he might be buying for a brat of his own. Checked his room first, actually, and the guest rooms. But if they’re your kids - precious Dickie’s precious babies - I guess I shouldn’t be surprised he wasn’t paying attention to anything else.”

Dick just stared. “He saw you everywhere,” he said. “He never forgot you. Not for an instant.”

“He replaced me!” The words were half-shouted. “He said I was his partner, and he replaced me!”

Immediately, Dick decided not to tell Jason that Bruce had just adopted him. If being replaced as Robin was this bad for him, it would be much worse hearing that Bruce had finally decided to formalise Dick’s place in the family. He’d start thinking of Dick’s adoption as being “replaced” as a son, or some such nonsense. Jason obviously wasn’t thinking clearly.

Jason was alive. It was all Dick could do not to cross the room and hug him, gun or no gun. That would be a bad idea, though. A very bad idea.

“Nobody replaced you, Jason. There’s no replacing anyone. Tim took over -“ he nearly said took over Robin “- because Bruce needed it. No other reason. He was - not safe. Please, Jay, put the gun down, I’ll go get Bruce, and we can talk. Celebrate properly. I can’t believe you’re alive!” The last words came out in a rush. It was hard to believe, but also the best thing that had happened this year.

The babies, he thought, guiltily. Amy and Bridget.

But Jason didn’t move. The gun stayed trained on him. “Not going to introduce me to your kids, Goldie?” he asked quietly. “No Uncle Jason?”

There - there wasn’t much he could say to that. 

The answer was a clear no. Bruce yes, but no Uncle Jason, not while Uncle Jason was holding a gun, and not when Uncle Jason had broken into his room instead of asking. He couldn’t say yes, he couldn’t say no, he couldn’t do anything but let the noise of the party bubble up between them from elsewhere in the house.

“That’s what I thought.” Jason’s finger tapped worryingly near the trigger. “I know you never liked me. I was never good enough for you - but I was good enough for Bruce to adopt, wasn’t I? You were jealous. Bet you were glad when I died.”

“No,” Dick said. “No, never.”

“Never jealous or never glad?”

“Never glad,” he said, because never jealous would be a lie. “What is it you want, Jason?”

Jason’s eyes burned with mad, green fire as he said, “I want to kill the replacement. I want Bruce to kill that damn clown.” He straightened, and at last lowered the gun. “But not here. Not now. Make no mistake, I still intend to make that happen. Don’t get in my way, Goldie, or your kids might end up orphans too.”

Dick swallowed, hard. It felt like there was a rock in his throat. “Jason -”

“Spare me. You apologised once, and guess what, it didn’t make it all better. I’ll see you round the city. Tell Bruce to watch his back. The replacement’s as well.”

Tim hasn’t done anything to you, he wanted to protest, but he thought it might be as bad an idea as the hug. Jason started to walk past him. But before he could leave, though, there was one thing Dick had to say. “Jason…”

“What?”

“If you hurt my daughters…”

“You’ll what?” Jason smirked. “Kill me? Please.”

He walked off without another word, and all Dick could do was watch his retreating back.

Jason. Alive. Somehow, miraculously. He had to tell Bruce. His feet felt rooted to the floor.

 

—

 

Long practice had made these parties bearable. “How could I say no?” Bruce asked his fourth would-be nighttime companion rhetorically. He could easily say no. The challenge was keeping the muscles around his eyes loose and his smile the right width. “Toni, really, you’ve never looked lovelier.”

He kept his vapid mask in place through the unfortunate truth. Salmon pink was not Antonia Cilli’s colour. It was still an improvement over the rose pink she’d worn to the last ball. Bruce reminded himself that there was a lot to admire about a woman who wore colours she liked.

It was just that none of them were fashion sense.

“Why, Bruce, you’re such a gentleman,” Antonia giggled, as he escorted her to the dance floor.

“And you’re quite the flatterer,” Bruce replied amiably. “To think of all the time I’ve spent trying not to be a gentleman.” Knowing she didn’t object to a light touch, on that last word he brushed his hand a little lower down her hip, just inappropriate enough for his cover and yet not so much she’d expect anything of him. He didn’t feel like taking anyone upstairs tonight, unless you counted his desire to whisk Dick away from the party and keep him upstairs where he could get his head on straight in peace.

Where was he? Bruce hadn’t seen Dick for almost an hour, not in the centre of attention where he usually spent most of these parties, not even in passing.

Before he could make any inquiries, or scan the room more thoroughly, Alfred appeared at his elbow. “Master Bruce, a word?”

“Of course.” He smiled back at Toni, excused himself, and followed Alfred. Once they were out of the bustle of the main party, he asked, “What’s wrong?”

Alfred didn’t come and take him away from a party like this for just anything.

“Miss Cassandra has returned to the house,” Alfred said. “She was most insistent that she speak to you immediately and in confidence. She is currently in the family living room.”

Cass? Not Batgirl? Bruce picked up his pace. “Have you seen Dick?” he asked.

“He went upstairs to take something of a breather.”

“And Clark?”

“Still downstairs with the youngest misses. He too has indicated that he would like to speak with you.”

Worse and worse. Had Clark heard something? The Kryptonian could hear every conversation in the Manor, of that he had no doubt. He scowled to himself; he better not be neglecting Bruce’s granddaughters. Cass first, though, since whatever made her break off her patrol must have been important.

The family living room was a good one for private conversation. It was a long way away from the more public areas of the house, with locked sitting rooms on either side acting as a bar to hidden outside eavesdroppers. (The regular checks for bugs Bruce conducted also helped.) Cass was perched anxiously on an overstuffed sofa, wearing not her Batgirl costume, but sweatpants and t-shirt. At the very least, she looked unhurt. That was something. “What is it, Cass?”

“I went to see Barbara,” she said. She took a breath and gave him a look full of sympathy, for some reason. Then she said, “Barbara said, the Red Hood is Jason.”

“Impossible,” he said, the word tearing his throat as it left. “Jason is dead.”

Clever, brave Jason. Angry, mistrustful Jason. Jason who grasped so hard at the idea of family that it got him killed. Jason who he loved, and who he’d failed. Jason was dead.

Cass shook her head. “Barbara was sure. Jason. Red Hood. Same person.”

“No. You’ve never seen Jason.” How would Cass even know what he looked like? Bruce didn’t keep photographs of him in the house or the office. He couldn’t bear to. The only photographs he had of Jason were tucked away in a book, in a box of his things. Bruce did not look at them.

“I trust Barbara,” she said. And because she was who she was, she added, “You trust Barbara.”

He did. He trusted Barbara’s memory, her training, her temperament, and her judgment. She was not the sort of person who saw dead friends in the shadows. If she said she saw someone, Bruce would normally be inclined to believe her. When it came to that sort of information, he trusted her recall more than he trusted anyone else’s.

But Jason was dead. There weren’t many ways to come back from that, none that a decent person would use on someone else willingly, and none that were kind to the one raised. As much as he loved Jason - he didn’t want to believe that he was alive. Better to let him rest. Jason deserved to rest.

“Is she absolutely certain?” Bruce asked, voice hoarse.

Cass didn’t get to answer before Dick barged in, breathing hard, eyes wild. “Bruce, I need to talk to you.”

“Not now,” Bruce said.

“It’s important.” Dick dragged in a breath. “Bruce, Jason’s alive.”

Bruce whirled on him. “Did you see him for yourself? He was here?”

“Yes - wait, you know?” He looked to Cass for an explanation.

Cass shrugged and said, again, “Barbara said. Saw video. She saw something on his neck.”

That mole. It was small but dark, distinct. Alfred had raised the collar of the Robin costume just a bit to cover it, hiding the identifying mark fom sight. Who’s going to notice? Jason had asked, the first time he put it on and the collar rubbed at his neck awkwardly. Two people now, Bruce thought.

“He was here?” Bruce repeated. “He was here and he didn’t…” He trailed off, because he wasn’t sure what it was Jason hadn’t done that was surprising. If Jason was the Red Hood as Barbara claimed, he’d shot Tim and taunted Bruce about his inability to save his partners. Bruce deserved that, from Jason more than anyone, but Tim was innocent.

“No,” Dick said. “He was in my room. He wanted to know about Amy and Bridget.”

“How would he even know about them?” Was there a hole in his security? Beyond that which had allowed Jason to gain access to the Manor in the first place, that was. Bruce hadn’t told anyone. Alfred wouldn’t, nor Cass, nor Tim. Other than family, the only people he knew Dick had informed were Clark and Barbara, and they were also trustworthy. If it had to do with spilling Dick’s secrets, Bruce would normally suspect Wally and/or Roy. But as far as Bruce knew, Dick hadn’t told either of them.

Dick hesitated, pain writ all over his face. “He said you practically walked into him on Christmas Eve,” he said, “and you didn’t recognise him. He saw you buying stuff for the babies. He said he thought they might be yours, he went into your room first, and checked the guest rooms, but then he went into mine. And, well…”

Try as he might, he couldn’t remember seeing Jason, or anyone who looked like Jason, on Christmas Eve. “I remember I was followed,” he said. “It didn’t feel hostile. I assumed it was a papparazzo. That was Jason?”

“So he said.” Dick’s stricken expression, he knew, must mirror his own. “He - he was upset.”

Well he might be. The familiar feeling of failure crashed over him. When had he not been a failure, where Jason was concerned?

Bruce quashed the feeling. He would get nowhere agonising over what might have been. For now, he had two sons and two granddaughters who needed him, and Tim and Cass to protect as well, though they might not need him in the same way right now.

There was also a party ongoing on the first floor that couldn’t be neglected. Soon he would have to resume the mask of Brucie Wayne for a few hours and pretend his second son hadn’t returned from the grave.

“We will discuss this later, downstairs,” Bruce ordered. “Dick and I still need to be seen at the party. Cass, find Tim let him know. He might be in danger.” The Red Hood had a grudge against Robin. He could not allow Jason to hurt Tim, no matter what. No matter why. The grudge was more properly directed against him.

Cass nodded and slipped out of the room, silent as a shadow even as a civilian. Dick, still in his party clothes, fixed him with a miserable gaze. He looked utterly devastated. That wasn’t surprising either. He knew how much Dick cared about Tim, and about Jason too.

“Are you ready?” Bruce asked, as Dick shrugged off his tux jacket (he’d ripped it along some seams), loosened his tie, and rolled up his shirtsleeves for a far less formal look. The question sounded brusque even to his own ears.

“Are you going to tell Alfred?” Dick countered. Alfred loved Jason as much as any of them.

“After,” Bruce said. “I need him for the duration.”

The unhappiness on Dick’s face sharpened. Then, abruptly, he nodded and smiled. Such a bright, carefree expression. Only long familiarity told Bruce how utterly fake it was. “Good,” he said, and smiled himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks everyone so much for your comments, kudos, and bookmarks! I really enjoy posting this fic, and I'm glad people are enjoying it too. Next chapter will be up next week as usual.
> 
>  
> 
> NEXT TIME:
> 
> Sneaking out of Wayne Manor took every ounce of self-control Jason had. He wanted to run back and punch Dick in his smug, too-pretty face. More, he wanted to shove his gun under Bruce’s chin until he got some reaction. Some indication that he’d ever mattered to the man.


	17. Pay It Forward

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jason on the offensive, the Bats on the defensive.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shouldn't be anything in this chapter the tags don't cover.

Sneaking out of Wayne Manor took every ounce of self-control Jason had. He wanted to run back and punch Dick in his smug, too-pretty face. More, he wanted to shove his gun under Bruce’s chin until he got _some_ reaction. Some indication that he’d ever mattered to the man.

His lower back _hurt_ where Dick had punched him. Kidney shot, and a hard one too. He was going to be pissing blood for a week.

It wasn’t safe to go back to his hideout across from the Drakes’ place, the one he’d been using to keep tabs on the kid, and Bruce as much as possible (the stupid huge properties in this area made things difficult). He wouldn’t mind going there, either, and shaking up the Replacement’s perfect little family. Leave a horse’s head in the bed or something, that was a classic, that’d rattle them. It figured that Bruce wouldn’t take an orphan this time, but a rich kid who already had a dad who loved him, and a stepmom who at least tried. Fuck, the Replacement even had a fresh-faced and wholesome little blonde girlfriend. On _top_ of Bruce, and Dick actually acting like he wanted the Replacement around, and Alfred too.

Green rushed across his vision, encouraging him to do _something_ to either Bruce or the Replacement before he left, but it was too risky. Jason wanted to get his revenge _right_.

Instead, Jason drifted out with some of the caterers on break, fitting in with them far better than he ever had with the guests. A smile and a cigarette, a comment on the snow that had been falling for a few hours, and people just assumed he belonged. They didn’t notice how fake an expression it was. They never did. Bruce - Alfred, on Bruce’s behalf - probably hired the stupidest workers they thought could get the job done. Otherwise they’d have to work that much harder for their bullshit to be believed.

When Bruce had run into him on Christmas Eve, he hadn’t been able to believe it. He knew the man hadn’t found out who the Red Hood was; he had thought Bruce would at least recognise him. Jason Todd. His _son._

Instead, Bruce had barely glanced over him, eyes looking without seeing, mind somewhere else.

He knew now where those thoughts had been. With his favourite. Jason came back from the fucking _dead_? Goldie produced a pair of mini-Dicks. Big deal, Jason thought bitterly. Just about any guy could do that. Someone else, some random girlfriend of Dick’s, had done the _real_ work there. But as far as Bruce’s attention went, there was no contest.

Hell, Jason seriously doubted, in the godawful event that Bruce should reproduce the traditional way, that he’d be able to love his own biological child as much as he loved Goldie and now, no doubt, his Goldie-spawn. 

He pictured the room. Pink and yellow in the cradles, going by the blankets and the stacks of clothes nearby. A pair of little girls, though where they were spending New Year’s Eve Jason didn’t know. How long had Dick had them? Couldn’t have been long; Nightwing had been patrolling regularly in Bludhaven before the holidays. That wasn’t the sort of thing you could do with newborns at home.

Unless, of course, Dick had been foisting them off on his hordes of friends. Jason could just imagine that. A sad look with big blue eyes and a dejected _I guess I can’t be Nightwing anymore_ and half the superhero community would be lining up outside Dick’s apartment to spoil his kids and free him up for patrol.

That thought didn’t feel right. 

Since he’d woken up after the Lazarus Pit he got that sort of thing sometimes. Vicious, green-tinged thoughts that ate away at everything he believed. He didn’t like it, but it was better than being dead. Jason shook his head, hoping that would dislodge the thought. Goldie was smug and annoying and a giant hypocrite about family and Jason’s place in it, but he didn’t manipulate or take advantage of people like that. He _could_ , but he didn’t.

Instead, he’d been…strange. The apology. Jason wouldn’t have thought Bruce would let precious Dickiebird out on patrol in that sort of state. Not to mention the half-a-death-threat. That wasn’t like Dick either.

Whatever. Didn’t matter. Goldie was on Jason’s list, for all that bullshit he didn’t mean about being _brothers_ , but lower than Bruce, the replacement, and the clown. They came first. They _died_ first. Not Bruce Wayne, he’d promised not to kill him, but he was going to _make_ Bruce sorry for what he hadn’t done.

The New Year fireworks were just starting as Jason returned to his primary hideout, visible now that the snow was easing. He could remember watching them from a rooftop when he was eight. He could remember watching them with Bruce when he was fourteen.

He flinched away from a burst of bright green in the dark sky. It looked a little too much like his nightmares for comfort. He hurried inside. What good were fireworks anyway? Waste of good gunpowder.

Talia was waiting for him in his living room. She stood by his window, half-lit by the streetlight outside, the faint traces of fireworks flashing blue and white and orange over her face, perfectly poised. Jason knew a beautiful woman when he saw one, but he’d rather get in bed with an actual venomous snake than with her. Besides, she was way too old for him.

“How went your investigation?” Talia asked.

Business, though - the al Ghuls understood business. And revenge. In that, he and Talia were on the same page. There was something else going on with her, too, since she’d come running the instant Jason had called her saying there was apparently a baby in Wayne Manor - a baby Bruce cared enough about to go buy things for himself, in person, looking like Killer Croc just rung his bell. Sure, that indicated some lousy taste in men on her part, but Talia was keeping him in explosives. He was going to need those.

“Found what I was looking for,” Jason said. Talia knew what he’d been planning to do that evening. The only reason she’d have come was if she wanted a full report, right away. “No need to worry, the kid isn’t Bruce’s.”

A scarlet flower in the sky outside lit up her furrowed brow. “The circus boy’s child, then,” she said. “There is nobody else for whom my beloved would concern himself so.”

“Children,” Jason corrected her. “Dick’s got twin girls.”

“And so my beloved will consider himself a grandfather.” The words apparently made a bad taste in Talia’s mouth. “To that trash’s children. Is there any word on the mother’s identity?”

Jason bit back the retort that he was ‘trash’ just like Dick was, unless the daughter of the most noble al Ghul family thought a Gotham street rat had better breeding than a circus brat. “Papa Bear found me about a minute after I went into his room and punched me in a kidney,” he said. “The kids weren’t there. I haven’t a clue who the mother might be. He gets enough attention from women that it could be just about anyone.” But not Babs. Nightwing and Batgirl had been disgustingly sweet on each other before Jason had been beaten with a crowbar and blown up. He guessed they must not be together anymore.

Talia tutted. “No matter. The public record will provide the information.”

No more fireworks. The party was over, and Jason was sore and tired and angry. He’d been angry ever since the Pit. “Why does it matter to you, anyway?”

“As long as you do not kill my beloved, it is of no concern to you.”

Figured. A snob like her wouldn’t want to confide in the help. He was a useful monkey as far as she was concerned, nothing more. So a good match for dear old adoptive dad, really. At least Talia would be honest about how expendable Jason was to her. “Don’t worry,” he said, “I’m only going to make him kill the clown.” 

Talia nodded. “A goal my father and I approve of.”

“Do I have your permission to kill Nightwing and my replacement as well?” Sarcasm flavoured his words, as heavy as he could make it. He just wanted Talia to leave. He had bruises to count. Blood to piss. Clowns to plan to murder.

She just laughed, throaty and musical. “Dear Jason, you don’t need my permission. Kill who you like, so long as it is not my beloved. They deserve it, do they not?”

The thoughts boiled up, green and violent. Kill them. Kill the replacement. Don’t give Bruce any chance to save him, just shoot him and leave him for dead in an alley. Jason had already let Bruce save his new Robin once, and once was enough. Once was all the saving any Robin could expect. Kill Nightwing. Let him think he was going to get his little brother back and knife him through the heart when he went for the stupid fucking hug he’d inevitably try the instant he saw Jason didn’t have a gun. Leave his children -

Leave his children - with Bruce? No, that wouldn’t be right, Bruce was a crappy dad, he knew that from experience. Alfred was getting old. Jason certainly couldn’t take them himself. They’d be alone…

Green ebbed. Dick’s kids. Babies, for chrissakes. He couldn’t - he couldn’t - 

“They deserve it,” Talia said, answering her own question when she saw that Jason wouldn’t, and the green came back. “If my beloved loved you, he would not have replaced you. He would have avenged you. It is as simple as that.”

Goldie would wait. Replacement first. Bruce first. The clown first. Jason crossed to the window. Thoughts of revenge, welcome as they were, brought thoughts of the coffin. Then, the only thing that could alleviate the claustrophobia was looking up at the sky.

Out of habit, Jason checked the nearby rooftops. A flash of movement caught his eye. A few seconds later, it the movement repeated. Looking at it carefully, Jason could tell the swish of a cape. He felt a grin spread over his face. “Hold that thought,” he told Talia. “I’ve been punched in the kidney tonight, and I think I see someone I can pay it back to.”

 

—

 

The party just wouldn’t _stop_. Dick was done with it. The fireworks were over, the champagne had been poured, but a few of the guests just kept hanging around. Since Bruce was the host, he and Dick were both stuck.  His brother came back from the dead swearing to hurt him, their father, and their honorary little brother, and he was stuck at a party. Not to mention Superman was putting in serious overtime hours as a babysitter.

When the party currents brought Dick back to Bruce, he murmured, “I need your advice on how to make the girls public. I’m not pretending they don’t exist for another party.”

Without dropping his vapid Brucie smile, Bruce said, “Later. For now, help me get them out.”

How did Bruce do it? Dick wondered. He knew, he _knew_ , that Bruce was suffering every bit as much as Dick was. Probably more. Nobody had ever called Bruce expressive, but there was no doubting how much he loved Jason. Yet here he was, mask firmly in place, denying what must be a very strong desire to just change into the Batsuit, turn Gotham upside-down, and shake it until Jason fell out.

 _Dick_ wanted to turn Gotham upside-down and shake it until Jason fell out. After he’d made sure his daughters were safe in bed under Alfred’s watchful eyes, because he couldn’t just leave his girls alone.

It took another hour to shuffle the party guests out of the Manor. Some of them were extremely drunk. Olivia Fletchley, for instance. She groped him on her way out the door. Before the rooftop he would have been able to laugh that off, awkward and uncomfortable as he found it. Now, he was just glad Cass wasn’t there, because he could never have hidden his flinch from her. Olivia just giggled and said, “Nice and firm.” Dick couldn’t shove her out the door fast enough.

But even the clingiest hangers-on couldn’t stay forever. And after very nearly ten years of working together, Dick didn’t even need to talk to Bruce to know their night wasn’t over.

Bruce’s night wasn’t over, anyway. As for Dick…daughters first, Nightwing second. That was how it had to be. If only he hadn’t been so stupid, so _weak_ , nine months ago, he would have been able to go out there and help.

Clark was waiting for them next to the cribs, face sober. “I heard,” he said. “I’ll be going. This sounds like a matter for your family.”

“Thanks, Clark,” Dick said. Bruce was already heading off to change. “How were they?”

“Not bad,” Clark said, and managed a smile. “They cried for a bit, but after a bit more food and some hugs they calmed down again.”

“Baby-minding must be a lesser-known power of Kryptonians,” Dick said. “They were awful yesterday. Took me and Bruce hours to get them to stop screaming.” He looked at their tiny, peaceful faces. They were growing familiar to him. The idea that they were going to be part of his life was growing familiar.

He still wasn’t quite sure how he felt about that. A lot of fear, in several different shades. Fear of failing them, fear for them. Increasing amounts of love. Anticipation. There was also resentment and a strange sort of claustrophobia, which he wasn’t proud of and could barely stand to admit to himself. He’d have to work on that. He couldn’t be resenting his babies for existing.

“Nah,” Clark said. “Lesser-known power of my Ma. Best babysitter in all of Smallville.”

“I appreciate it,” Dick said. Clark really was the best pseudo-uncle a guy could hope for. “I know you gave up your New Year’s Eve to look after two babies in a cave. It can’t have been fun.”

“Fun or not, I’m honoured you told me about them, Dick. Don’t hesitate to call if you need help again.” He smiled and stroked two heads of thin, soft baby hair with hands that could, and had, crushed rocks to gravel. “I have to get back to Metropolis, and you have a brother to track down. Don’t let Bruce get too carried away.”

Dick looked over to the changing area. No sign of Batman. “I’ll do my best.”

“I know.” His voice dropped, so quiet it barely carried to Dick. “Jason’s coffin is empty. I checked.”

“I’ll let him know.” Gently. Bruce would blame himself all the more for never noticing. Come to think of it, how _had_ Jason’s body got out of the grave? “Thanks again, Uncle Clark.”

With a final wave, Superman flew out, faster than a speeding bullet. Somehow, Dick felt that much more alone. It didn’t feel right to be down here in civvies and not intending to get changed. He didn’t feel _part_ of things like this. “I’ll just have to get used to it,” he told Amy and Bridget. “Gotta make sure you two don’t trash the cave, am I right?”

The girls slept on.

Batman finally emerged from the changing area and stopped when he saw Dick still in his shirtsleeves. “You’re not going out.”

“I can’t,” Dick said. “Alfred has other things to do, and anyway, they’re my responsibility. I have to be the one to take care of them.”

He saw the draw of Bruce’s mouth and knew he was unhappy. “It’s Jason,” he said.

“And he came into my room looking for my daughters and threatening to kill Tim. I know. I _can’t go_. Jason’s my brother, and they’re my _children_.”

The frown under the cowl only deepened. “He threatened to kill Robin? In earnest?”

“Yeah. And I still can’t go out to help you.” He hated it. He hated himself. To be a passable parent, he was going to be a lousy brother. One of his brothers wanted to kill the other and he had to stay home because he’d run out of babysitting hours. “I’m sorry, Bruce.”

Batman looked to the sleeping babies. “I understand,” he said.

“I’ll stay in the cave,” Dick said. “Like Christmas Eve. That worked well enough, didn’t it?” Better than the patrol after Christmas. He still couldn’t believe it was really _Jason_ he’d run into that night. At least he’d apologised, though an apology given in a haze of confusion and trauma wasn’t much of an apology at all. He’d been such a shitty brother. He wasn’t doing all that much better with Tim either.

“Understood,” Batman said, turned on his heel in a swirl of dark cape, and hopped into the Batmobile. Dick watched him go forlornly.

But he wasn’t down here to mope. Dick got to the computer and brought up tracking. Batman was on the way to the city, that was easy. Tim was - not on a regular patrol route, but he was with a dot labelled ‘Spoiler’. Steph. Tim sneaking off patrol to check in with her wasn’t all that unusual. Hopefully Jason was too sore after the scuffle they had to go chasing Robin. Tim was probably safer off his patrol route than he was on it.

There was just…nothing he could do.

Dick’s attention was drawn fifteen uneventful minutes later by an incoming message. “Oracle,” he said aloud, accepting the call. The name might be new, the role as well, but the face behind the screen was still Barbara. “It’s me.”

“Oh,” the synthesised voice said. Though it was entirely mechanical, Dick thought he could hear disappointment. “Nightwing.”

“I’m working from the cave tonight,” he said. “Did you need to speak to Batman?”

“Yes. I’ll call him directly. Concentrate on your…duties.”

Amy and Bridget, she meant. Stay out of night work, she meant. Babs hung up. Dick resisted the temptation to slam the end call button. Behind him, he heard Alfred coming down the steps. “Master Richard,” the butler said, “I’m pleased to see that at least one of you has elected to stay in the house through the small hours of the morning.”

“Is it always like this, Alfred?” He didn’t dare take his eyes off the monitors. What if something happened when he looked away? “Sitting here and wishing you could do something more useful?”

“Quite frequently, yes, Master Richard, that is what it’s like.”

“It sucks.”

“Indeed it does.” Alfred set down a mug of steaming hot tea by Dick’s elbow. “May I ask what the emergency is?”

Dick stared. “Bruce didn’t tell you?”

“No, Master Richard.”

Words failed him. Bruce hadn’t told him? He’d said he would. Bastard. “Damn,” he muttered. “Alfred, Jason’s alive. He was here tonight, in my room. He threatened to kill Tim. But he’s _alive_.”

“Alive,” Alfred said, voice faint. Dick had never heard him so unsettled. Nor ever seen him sag against the counter where Bruce kept his most-frequently-used weaponry like that, as if his knees were almost giving out on him. “I see. How was such a thing accomplished?”

Alfred, Dick remembered, had handled most of the details of Jason’s funeral. Bruce had been…too _Bruce_ to do anything but rage in the very cave they sat in now, Dick too angry (not that he would have been the right one to organise it anyway). Alfred loved Jason as much as any of them. And Bruce hadn’t told him. “We don’t know,” Dick said. “I think - he’s gone to make sure Jason hasn’t hurt Tim, first.”

“I see,” Alfred said. He sounded faint, but stood anyway. “If you’ll excuse me for a second, Master Richard.”

“Don’t mind me, Alfred.” Dick glanced at him, and then back towards the monitors, so he could pretend he hadn’t seen that Alfred’s eyes were shiny with tears.

A few uneventful minutes later, Alfred returned, dry-eyed and carrying two glasses each with an inch of good single malt. “To the New Year, Master Richard,” he said. “If only all the news could be as joyous as this.”

 _I want to kill the replacement. I want Bruce to kill that damn clown._ Dick shivered, smiled, and drank.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you everyone for your comments/kudos/bookmarks, again, and for sticking with this story! Next chapter will be up next week!
> 
>  
> 
> NEXT TIME:
> 
> Why had she agreed to meet Tim up here, anyway? It had been snowing. In Gotham. They usually got sleet. The snow was prettier, but it still sucked to move around in.
> 
> Tim blushed, she could see it under his Robin mask. “It’s not on anyone’s regular patrol route.”
> 
> “Gotcha. Avoiding Big B?”
> 
> “Yeah.”
> 
> Steph winced. “What’s he done this time?”


	18. Happy New Year

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Meanwhile, in Gotham City...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No particular warnings.

Cass enjoyed patrolling. In some ways it was much like what her biological father had made her do - there was a lot of watching and waiting. She was good at watching and waiting. Tonight, that was not her mission. New Year’s Eve and the early hours of New Year’s Day, Bruce had told her, was a time for taking action.

That was okay. Cass was good at that too.

There were a lot of little crimes on New Year’s Eve. She stopped a mugging within fifteen minutes. Then she broke up a bar brawl that had spilled into the street. Bruce wanted to put fear in the hearts of criminals, but Cass liked the idea of just stopping crime.

A machine voice Cass didn’t know at first talked to her over her earpiece. “Oracle calling,” it said. “I hear you’re looking for Robin.”

“I am,” Cass said. That was Barbara. Even if her voice was different from the machine, she couldn’t hide how she spoke. Her words had the same beat to them.

“You’re going to have to put it on hold. The Riddler’s acting up.”

Cass was not good at dealing with the Riddler. He used a lot of words she didn’t know and talked about a lot of things she didn’t know about. Then he blew up things. Batman, Nightwing, and Robin could usually stop him before he blew up things, because they understood him better. “What is he doing?”

She still had to try to stop him. Maybe this time she’d do better.

“He’s distributed a bunch of modified tourism pamphlets. Tourists are picking them up, reading them, and walking right into ambushes. GCPD’s got enough on their plate with regular crowd control.”

“What are pamphlets?” Cass asked.

“A little book of information. These ones tell people what might be fun to do on New Year. Or they should. They’re giving the wrong directions.”

It sounded like a complicated plan. She didn’t understand the Riddler very well. He always wanted to be smarter than everyone else, but because of it, he made stupid plans. _Too_ complicated. He would be smarter if he kept his plans simpler. “I will find the tourists,” she told Barbara. Robin was better at fighting than tourists were. He would be able to look after himself.

Cass also didn’t know much about the second Robin. Bruce did not talk about him. Alfred did not say much either. Tim had showed her photos. In the earlier ones he held his jaw like he had sore teeth; in the later ones he was almost always hurt in the ribs or shoulders. Tim said it was because Jason didn’t fight like Dick and got hit more. The Red Hood she had seen on Barbara’s screens had been hit in the chest, where his armour was. Otherwise nobody had bruised him recently.

She hoped Robin would be able to look after himself.

Barbara gave her directions to the nearest side. She followed them. “I’ve traced the printer,” Barbara told her as she went. “I’m just contacting the suppliers now so they can get them off the shelves. All you need to do is round up the people the Riddler’s actually got doing the mugging.”

“Maybe I should get one of these pamphlets,” Cass said. “It might be quicker if I do this part myself.” The quicker she was, the quicker she could help Robin. The quicker they could both help Robin.

“Maybe,” Barbara said. “Okay. There’s a store two streets on your left selling them. The one with the big yellow sign out front. I can see the display rack near the door. Grab them all and see how you go with reading it.”

Two streets to her left. Not far. She ignored the occasional person on the roofs watching fireworks. They weren’t hurting anyone. Instead, she poked her head over the street Barbara said had the store selling the Riddler’s pamphlets. Cass swung down to street level and found the rack Barbara had told her about. “Which one is it?” she asked, ignoring the shopkeeper staring at her. He had a shotgun under the counter, but he was no threat to her.

“It’s got _New Year in Gotham_ on the front. Dark blue with pictures of fireworks.”

Not for the first time, Cass wondered why all letters had to look so much alike. She found the dark blue and fireworks before she found the right words. She opened it to find more pictures, labelled with very small words. She didn’t know why the size made a difference. She just knew it was easier to read the words when they were big. “I can’t read this,” she whispered.

Cass did not want the shopkeeper to know that she couldn’t read well. Bruce thought it was a good idea to hide that weakness too.

“No problem,” Barbara said. “I’ve got the ambush points. We’ll just have to do this together, the slow way. Grab the rest of the pamphlets on your way out. There’s a good place to dump them between your location and the first place Riddler’s luring people through.”

With the machine voice in her ear giving her directions, Cass returned to the rooftops. “How many places?” she asked. She was worried about Tim. She was worried about Bruce. She wanted to help them, but she was Batgirl too, and Batgirl did not leave innocent tourists to the Riddler.

“Eight,” Barbara said. “I’ll do my best to get the police to back you up.”

“The sooner we start, the sooner we finish,” Cass said determinedly. It was snowing now. She did like the snow. When she went home, Alfred would have cocoa for them all. Bruce and Tim and Dick and her. It wouldn’t make everything better, but it would help. “Tell me the first place.”

 

—

 

“You sure know how to show a girl a good time,” Steph said, as they perched on a rooftop overlooking the detritus of New Year’s Eve celebrations. It was a nice safe neighbourhood and a cold and now-clear night, so it had mostly cleared out by two. If there were any parties still going on, they were going on inside. Where it was warm.

_Why_ had she agreed to meet Tim up here, anyway? It had been _snowing._ In _Gotham_. They usually got sleet. The snow was prettier, but it still sucked to move around in.

Tim blushed, she could see it under his Robin mask. “It’s not on anyone’s regular patrol route.”

“Gotcha. Avoiding Big B?”

“Yeah.”

Steph winced. “What’s he done this time?”

Tim looked over the edge of the roof and then scanned the area. Really, his paranoia was adorable. “Nothing in particular,” he said, which wasn’t an answer.

“Seriously, Robin?”

“He’s stressed.”

“So’re you,” she pointed out. And she’d thought he’d been edgy at Christmas. “Besides, you told me last year that New Year’s Eve always makes him super grumpy.”

Tim paced. It was the same in a mask or out of it, she’d noticed. If he was upset, he paced. “It’s worse this year,” he said. “I didn’t tell you earlier, but Nightwing’s in a bad way.”

“Is he all right?” Steph asked immediately. She’d only met Nightwing twice, since she was still minor league and he played with the big boys and girls, but she’d liked him. Tim said everyone liked him. To be fair, from what little she’d seen, Nightwing was the sort of guy who liked everyone back. It evened out.

Tim didn’t seem to know how to answer. He stared at her helplessly for a few seconds before saying “Physically.”

Geez. Tim was the smartest person she knew, but it was true - very smart people could be equally stupid about some things. “So he’s not fine mentally. That’s what you’re saying.”

Pace, pace, pace, turn. Pace, pace, pace, turn. If anyone had a vantage point on their roof Tim would be easy to spot ’cause he was moving around so much. Strangely, she could imagine Batman doing exactly the same thing in the safety of the mythical Batcave she wasn’t trusted to go within fifty feet of. Not that she’d ever know if she got within fifty feet because she wasn’t even trusted enough to officially know where it was.

Come on, she knew who Robin was and who Batgirl was. She had an educated guess who Batman was. A well educated guess that also accounted for Nightwing’s ID. She was pretty sure she was right. Unofficially.

Tim kept pacing, and eventually said, “No. He’s not. I want to tell you, but…”

“Yeah, yeah. Bat-confidentiality.”

“It’d be a breach of trust,” Tim said. “It’s not just gossip.” To Steph’s experienced if not highly Bat-trained eyes, Tim looked about ready to tear his hair out. “I _want_ to tell you. I really do. I - I could use your advice.”

Steph hid her hurt that Tim had asked her out here, on New Year’s Eve, not because he wanted to spend time with her but because he wanted to talk about Nightwing. _He values your advice, girl_ , she reminded herself. Not many guys her age would admit that a girl might know better than they did. “Tell me what you can,” she said.

Pace, pace, pace, turn. “He messed up,” Tim said. “Bad. He’s been lying to everyone about it, even B.”

“Was it on that undercover mission you mentioned he went on?”

“Before that.” Pace, pace, pace, turn. 

He was making her motion sick just looking at him. Steph checked the streets below. She also checked her traces of jealousy at the door. This sounded serious. “Did he kill someone?” she asked.

Behind her, she heard Tim’s footsteps come to a halt. When she turned, she could see every anxious crease in his face, picked out in diffuse streetlight. “He didn’t say.” The words were quiet as the hum of distant traffic. “He panicked and ran off when I asked. He _ran off_. It was like he couldn’t hear me at all. I think he told B details later, when he calmed down, but…”

Oh god, Nightwing _had_ killed someone. Some of the guys her dad used to hang with had said something like that, but Steph had dismissed it out of hand. She’d _met_ Nightwing (sure, only twice, but she’d spent more time with him than those clowns had) thank you very much and he just hadn’t seemed like the killing sort of guy. Even less than the big man. 

Still wasn’t a good time to freak out about it. Not with Tim looking to her with big (masked) blue eyes, like he wanted her to just make it better.

She so needed to do counselling in college, when she actually got there. That, or she needed to charge Tim a nickel.

“Does it bother you that he messed up, or that he freaked out?” Steph asked gently.

Tim laughed, a short sharp involuntary noise. “Yes.”

“I’m trying to help you, smartass.”

“I don’t know,” Tim said. Pace, pace, pace, turn. “I get why he made that mistake, he…had reasons, I suppose…there’s not a scratch on him but he’s so, so _broken_ , what with one thing and another, he hasn’t been able to patrol.”

Now she really, really needed that counselling qualification. “Nightwing’s not all that much older than us,” she said. “He’s seen some messed up stuff and come back from it.”

Tim shook his head. “There’s other stuff. I can’t, shouldn’t tell you. It’s just - he’s not going to be the same again.”

A sneering voice behind them said, “Aww, hiding the good news from your girlfriend, Replacement? Daddy Bat would be proud.”

They both jumped. Steph nearly fell off the roof. Tim came down in a fighting stance - the Bat-training definitely had its uses and Steph so totally wanted in on some of that. The important thing here was, this guy wasn’t friendly. The full-face red helmet sure didn’t give that impression. Nor did the voice synthesizer.

“You again,” Tim said. “Red Hood.”

So that was the guy who had punched Tim in the face and who Batman was freaking out about. He didn’t look all that scary. He was a fairly big guy, yeah, but there were plenty of fairly big guys in Gotham and it did _not_ correlate well with danger level. Killer Croc was huge, Two-Face was pretty built, yeah, but the Penguin was tiny and the Joker looked like he’d snap in a stiff breeze. They weren’t any less dangerous than the villains twice their weight.

Steph also instantly decided she would not be calling this guy Red Hood; that wasn’t a freaking hood and he had to know it. He was wearing a helmet. True, calling him Red Helmet made him sound a bit like he walked out of _Spaceballs,_ but that wasn’t necessarily a bad thing, right?

“Glad you remembered me. That’s one out of three.” To Steph, he said, “He means that Nightwing recently became the proud single papa of two bouncing baby girls.”

Steph glanced at Tim. Yep. That was true. Okay, then. “I should get him a card!” she said, cheerfully as possible. Tim was freaked; he looked like he could use some more optimism. And that she could most definitely provide, while also not getting all riled up like Red Helmet wanted her to.

“What do you want?” Tim asked the Red Helmet guy. “How did you _know_?”

“If you haven’t figured out who I am by now, boy do they have news for you back at the house. As for what I want, it’s nothing special. Just to kill you. Maybe punch you in the kidneys a few times. ‘Wing got me pretty good when I dropped by to see the kids and I figure I can pay that forward. Probably should have called ahead, huh? Maybe he wouldn’t have freaked out so bad.”

“If you hurt them-“ Tim started.

“Me? Why would I hurt them? I don’t hurt kids.” Red Helmet asked. “ _They’re_ the ones who’re gonna put those girls in capes and masks before they can even fucking walk. Not me.”

“You seem fine with hurting Robin,” Steph pointed out.

The man froze. Like some sort of big cat. “Robins are old enough to get killed on the streets. Your little buddy there knows it. He ever tell you what happened to his predecessor?”

“Dead,” Steph shot back - metaphorically shot back, of course. Tim had told her about it, when he’d been trying to scare her off solo vigilante work. Jason Todd, kidnapped and murdered by the Joker. Just thinking about it put a chill down her spine. She hadn’t let that stop her yet. “But I don’t know if you noticed, Red, you’re wearing a mask yourself, and you don’t sound that old. Would _you_ let someone tell you that you couldn’t help?”

Red Helmet laughed. “Purple Chick, you are out of his league. I don’t think I’ll kill you. At least, if you don’t make me kill you, I won’t.” He drew his gun, and threw it aside dramatically. Luckily it didn’t go off. “You guys get one shot. Make it count.”

Great. Steph looked to Tim. Tim said, “You can run.”

“Like hell. You want me to go low or high?”

Tim sighed and adjusted his stance. “High.”

“I don’t have all night,” Red Helmet said.

As one, Steph and Tim leapt. Not high and low, but left and right. They’d worked that out a few months ago, since she didn’t know all the hand signals Batman and Robin used yet. Not that it mattered, since Red Helmet dropped under her head-high blow and blocked Tim’s punch. He was bigger and stronger and just as well trained as they were. As he punched out with a vicious strike to Steph’s stomach that she couldn’t quite dodge, she realised he might just be better trained than them too. She rolled with the punch as best she could, ignoring the pain and the snow working its way into her sleeves.

Rolling, however, put her out of arm’s reach, while Tim was still close.

Red Helmet tanked a few hits from Robin. Steph had the distinct impression that if she could see beneath that stupid bit of plastic, he’d be grinning. He grabbed Tim and headbutted him, hard. Stupid as it looked, that sort of thing could do a lot of damage. Especially when one party was wearing a helmet and the other wasn’t. Steph leapt to her feet, trying to reach Tim before Red Helmet took advantage of his disorientation.

She wasn’t fast enough. Before she could, Red Helmet whipped a knife out from his sleeve and slashed at Tim’s throat. Tim staggered back and fell, blood pouring from the wound.

“Robin!”

Steph forgot about Red Helmet and jumped towards Tim, unsure how to start first aid. It wasn’t a broken bone or a regular deep cut, it was a _cut throat_. It might _kill_ Tim. “Robin, no, no, come on, you know what B says. Mind over matter. You can totally imagine away a nicked jugular, right? By the way, it better not be your jugular that’s leaking here.” She went for the bandages it was only prudent to carry around and started trying to pack the wound. Her gloves were smeared dark with blood within seconds.

This was not how she’d wanted to spend the early hours of New Year.

Above her, Red Hood was laughing. “Like I said, Purple Chick, you’re way out of his league. Have fun trying to keep him alive. And, nothing personal, Blondie, I’m hoping you’ll fail.” He walked over to her, taking his sweet time now that Tim was down and Steph was busy trying to keep his blood in his body. “But before I leave, I have a kidney punch to pay forward.”

He hit her right where he said he would. Steph gasped with the pain and nearly faceplanted into Tim. She barely noticed the Red Hood go, after that. Barely noticed that he grappled off the building like a Bat would.

Tim fumbled at his ear with bloodied fingers. It seemed like everything was bloodied right now. His breath was coming hard, whether because of blood loss or just normal distress at getting a knife wound to the throat she didn’t know. She hoped it was the latter. After two attempts Tim got his communicator off and pressed it weakly into her hand.

Steph didn’t need telling twice. She hooked it on her own ear, not caring how much of a pain dried blood was to wash out of her hair or how much actual pain was still shooting through her (the Red Hood hit _hard_ ), and went back to trying to keep Tim alive.

“Calling all Bats,” she said, trying and failing to keep her voice steady. “Robin’s down.” She gave their location and repeated the message. “Please come help us.”

Tim kept bleeding.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One of these days, I will find a cliffhanger that doesn't involve danger to Tim. Today is not that day. I also suppose this is a good time to tell you all that real life's got hectic and the next chapter will be up in ten days (it is, however, a long chapter). Sorry! Thank you all for your patience and feedback!
> 
>  
> 
> NEXT TIME:
> 
> Batman calmed his heart rate. It had spiked the instant he heard the horrible words, Robin’s down. “En route, Spoiler. What happened?”
> 
> “It was the Red Hood,” she said. If he was trying to keep his heart rate down, Spoiler was obviously choking back tears. “We were just talking, and he came up behind us. He said he wanted us to fight him, but he - he - he cut Robin’s throat!”


	19. Robin Red

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Quite possibly the worst start to the New Year the Bats and their associates have ever experienced.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has few mentions of child abuse through neglect, but otherwise everything's within the tags.

Halfway to where Robin’s locator was registering (the distance covered at well over the speed limit), Batman received a call from Oracle. It was his first time seeing the impassive green avatar on his screen, and hearing the impassive synthesised voice. “Did you receive Batgirl’s message?”

“I did,” Batman said.

There was a pause. Batman didn’t care. Every second he got closer to the city. “I’ll send you the surveillance footage,” Oracle said.

“That would be appreciated.” 

Within seconds there was a soft _beep_ as the files arrived. “I sent a copy to Ni- to the Cave,” Oracle continued. “It’s definitely Jason. I ran it through your facial recognition software three times. Older, but him.”

“It looks like him,” Batman corrected her. He would believe it when he spoke to the Red Hood for himself, and preferably ran a DNA test. The Jason he knew would not have threatened a civilian who hadn’t hurt him or interfered with his life. “It hasn’t been confirmed yet.”

Jason was dead. He wanted Jason to still be at rest. Still in his grave, safe in death from all that Batman had failed to protect him from in life. Safe from the violation of resurrection. What sort of parent did Bruce think he was if he could not even protect his _dead_ son?

It was not the time to think like that. Robin might need him. The Red Hood was a threat, if Nightwing was to be believed. Nightwing was not as carefully rational as Oracle or Robin or Batman himself, he was impulsive and sometimes reckless, but he was better with people than any of them. Admittedly, he had been… _off_ , since the birth of his daughters.

Which reminded him. “Oracle.”

“Yes?”

“Can you still work with Nightwing?”

It was a blunt question. Insensitive. If Nightwing were here he’d upbraid Batman for it. But Nightwing wasn’t here and Batman had no time for his allies fighting each other. Not when Robin was under threat and not when his son might be back from the dead with all the complications that would entail.

“I don’t like it,” Oracle said.

“That isn’t what I asked.”

“Fine. Only in a limited capacity right now. I’m angry with him. If he wanted to hurt me, he succeeded. There aren’t going to be any baby presents from me either. I’m not going to be a part of this. Any of this."

Nightwing and Oracle had fought before and made operations difficult before. Even he could see that Nightwing’s affair with a woman who had tried to kill Oracle crossed a line, however. Oracle had a right to be angry with him.

As long as she kept it away from Amy and Bridget.

“Acknowledged,” Batman said.

The avatar could not express emotion, and the synthesised voice filtered out much of it as well. Still, he could hear surprise in Oracle’s voice. “You’re not angry?”

“No. As long as you can still work together and it doesn’t affect the children it’s none of my business.”

“No, it isn’t. Thank you.”

Down to business, now that that was sorted between them. “Is there any sign of the Red Hood in the city? Or Robin?”

After thirty seconds, Oracle said, “Robin’s with Spoiler, just off his Tuesday patrol route. I’m helping Batgirl manage an unrelated incident with the Riddler. No sign of the Red Hood.”

“He snuck into the Manor already tonight,” Batman said. “He may have turned in for the night.”

“Just like you - hang on. Incoming. It’s Robin.”

But the voice that came through was not Robin’s. It was young, female, frightened. Spoiler. “Calling all bats,” she said. “Robin’s down. We’re on Henshall Way, on the rooftop of the bluestone apartment block. Please come help us.”

Batman calmed his heart rate. It had spiked the instant he heard the horrible words, _Robin’s down._ “En route, Spoiler. What happened?”

“It was the Red Hood,” she said. If he was trying to keep his heart rate down, Spoiler was obviously choking back tears. “We were just talking, and he came up behind us. He said he wanted us to fight him, but he - he - he _cut Robin’s throat_!”

No. Not another Robin dead. Not at Jason’s hands. _Anything_ but that. “Is he alive?” Batman asked, voice harsh with fear.

“Yes,” Spoiler said. “He’s conscious, still bleeding.” This time, he heard her sob. “I’m putting pressure on the wound but I’m scared I’m going to choke him.”

He checked the map and pressed his foot harder to the accelerator. “I’m four minutes away.” He was not going to lose another Robin. Next step. “Nightwing.”

“What is it, B?”

“Get Leslie. Get Alfred. Get the infirmary ready, lots of blood, lots of fluids. Robin’s hurt. I’ll be there in twenty.” He’d have to drive even faster on the way back. Immaterial. Robin was wounded.

Nightwing’s voice was dry with fear too. “How bad?”

“Bad. Spoiler said Red Hood cut his throat.”

“Should I - should I call his father?”

“Robin is not going to die.”

“I believe you,” Nightwing said. “But this isn’t a split lip, B, it’s not something that he can explain away as an accident. He’s going to need treatment. It could scar. Should I call his father?” 

In the background of the call, Batman heard a faint rustling and shifting that suggested that Nightwing, new father, was holding one of his children as he spoke. Batman could remember the first time he had been afraid for a son of his own, Nightwing himself, and knew how hard it was when that perspective on delivering bad news changed. He could remember how he felt when he worked out where Jason had run off to and why. He could remember holding Jason’s still-warm body in his arms.

“I don’t care,” Batman said. Jack Drake had barely shown any interest in his son for twelve and a half years; he could show barely any interest for a few days more while people who loved him made sure he was well. “We make sure Robin survives first. Get to it. Batman out.”

As soon as he hung up on Nightwing, he went back to Robin’s channel. “Spoiler.”

“Batman.”

“How is he?”

“The bleeding’s slowing,” she reported, as he rounded the penultimate corner. “He’s still conscious, still breathing. He still has a pulse.”

“Good. You’re doing well, Spoiler. I’m nearly there.”

“Please hurry,” she whispered.

The Batmobile screeched to a halt right behind the building Spoiler had said they were on top of. Grappling to the roof seemed to take forever. And when he rounded the last obstacle between him and Robin he nearly stopped dead altogether at the terrible tableau.

Spoiler was sitting over Robin, her hands on his throat. There was a shining liquid smeared liberally all over both, black in the orange streetlight, but that Batman knew to be blood. So much blood. Tim was small for his age. He didn’t have much to spare. Spoiler’s tears shone too.

Tim was dying.

He shoved Spoiler aside and examined her work. Not bad. She had kept Robin alive. Thanks to her, and his own level of physical fitness, Tim had a chance. Tim tapped his fingers in a weak but deliberate pattern on the ground, letting Batman know he was still concscious. They couldn’t see his eyes below his mask, and of course he wouldn’t want to speak. “More bandages,” he barked to her. “Quickly.” Now that there were two of them, he could hold the wounds while Spoiler prepared to treat them. While he drove back, she could take over again.

On closer inspection - his heart beating so fast it hurt, meditation be damned - Batman could see that the cut was not as deep as it could have been. Robin must have been moving back, the knife nicking veins rather than cutting through them entirely. That was the reason Spoiler was able to keep him alive. It was still dangerous. It still might kill Tim.

“Here,” Spoiler said, and thrust the prepared bandaging near Bruce’s hands. He packed and wrapped the cut as fast as possible, Tim’s pulse beating fast and weak beneath his fingers. It would keep him alive until they got back to the Cave, where they could give him blood and continue to keep him alive until Leslie got to him.

“Help me wrap him in his cape,” Batman said. “We need to keep him warm. Where’s the fire escape?” There would be no grappling down.

Together they got Tim wrapped and down from the rooftop. He groaned as Batman carried him down the steps, which both tore at Batman’s heart and comforted him that Robin still had the strength to protest the jarring. Spoiler got in the Batmobile first, the better to hold Robin and keep him warm. Together they pulled an emergency oxygen mask over his face. They got even bloodier in the process, but they were both beyond caring.

Batman floored it.

“Where are we going?” Spoiler asked.

“Home,” Batman said.

 

—

 

This was not how Steph had ever wanted to visit the Batcave. _They only tell you in like every second fairytale_ , she thought, near-hysterical, clutching Tim’s too-pale body to her and listening to his breathing. _Careful what you wish for_. Next to her, Batman was driving like a you-know-what out of hell, and calling for Nightwing as he did. “Here, B,” the younger man said over an unseen speaker. “How is he?”

He sounded scared too. At least Steph was in good company.

“Bad. Everything ready?”

“Yes. Transfusion’s ready to go, shock blankets ready, Leslie’s on her way now.”

Even though she knew better than anyone in that moment how not-good Tim was, Steph couldn’t help but be comforted. There were people looking out for Tim. A bunch of them. Stay positive, Steph. Tim was going to be just fine. What did he need his entire blood volume for anyway?

The drive seemed like it took forever. They left Gotham itself; Steph didn’t recognise the road they were driving along. But it _was_ taking them in the general direction of her educated guess. 

At last they were going through a tunnel, pulling in with a sharp turn and a screech of brakes. Nightwing - in civvies, face bare, the first time she’d officially seen him out of uniform - and another, older guy in a nice suit were waiting with a gurney and one of those rolling IV stands. Within seconds Nightwing and Batman had hauled Tim off her lap and onto the gurney while the old guy hooked him up to the blood supply. She wondered how many times they’d done something like that.

Without a look back, Batman and the old guy rolled Tim away somewhere else. It was Nightwing who reached out a hand to Steph to help her out of the Batmobile. “Spoiler,” he said. “Come on, we’ll find you something clean to wear and you can stay with Tim.”

Steph clung to his hand to climb out. Her legs felt weak and shaky, her guts sore, and she nearly fell out of Batman’s stupid giant car. “He’s going to be all right,” she said, because the hand that caught her was also shaking.

“Yeah,” Nightwing agreed. “Let’s go make sure for ourselves though.”

Tim still looked awful when they caught up to Batman and the old guy. Maybe it was just that he looked worse under the bright white lights in the cave, but the blood he’d lost was streaked all over him in varying shades of red - some scarlet-fresh, others maroon-black-dry. All of them were a ghastly contrast with his paper-white skin.

“Alfred,” Nightwing said, “How is he?”

“He should live,” old guy - Alfred - said. “I’ve put two stitches in, but I would prefer if Doctor Thompkins checked my work. The wound is in a delicate area, after all. In the meantime replacing the blood he’s lost is a relatively simple matter, as is keeping him warm and oxygenated.”

Steph and Nightwing both sighed in relief. Batman turned on his heel and stalked off. She cocked her head inquiringly at Nightwing, because _seriously_ , Tim was hurt! Wasn’t he going to stay?

“He’ll come back when Leslie shows up,” Nightwing whispered. “He’s going to investigate Red Hood more now. Alfred and I will stay with him, if you want to get cleaned up.”

“Indeed, Miss Spoiler,” Alfred added smoothly. Steph didn’t think she was officially supposed to know his name, but Nightwing had used it, _twice_ , as if he didn’t care if she heard it. As if he trusted her. “The showers are the next room over. Fresh clothing can easily be found for you.”

It was very early in the morning, she was _so_ tired, and Tim wasn’t going to die the second she turned her back. A shower sounded good. “Thanks, sir,” she said.

“Alfred, Miss Spoiler.”

“Then I’m Steph.”

“Miss Stephanie.”

“Acceptable compromise. Thanks, Alfred.”

“Then if you will wait just five minutes further, I shall fetch you that clothing. Master Nightwing -“

“I’ve got Tim,” he said.

Steph sat down on a nearby chair. “I think I went from not being trusted in the Batcave to getting naked in the Batcave in fifteen minutes.”

Nightwing agreed, “It’s a record. Just don’t tell Catwoman you broke it.” Then he said, “My name’s Dick.”

“I’d guessed.” They both looked at Tim. It _was_ pretty obvious, with all the things she knew. Nice of him to introduce himself though. Then something else sparked in her mind, pushed to the back what with Tim nearly dying. “Oh! I forgot! I need to say congratulations!”

Ni- _Dick_ stared at her. Not like she was crazy, a look she was very familiar with as a Gotham vigilante, but like he hadn’t expected her to say that.

“The Red Hood said you had kids now,” she said. “And Tim - the look on his face - I hope you don’t mind.”

“I don’t mind,” he said.

“Can I see them? If that’s okay. I like babies. I bet yours are super cute, too.” Dick only stared at her more. “What?”

“Nothing,” he said. “Nobody else has been quite so - eager, that’s all. Yeah, I’ll get them when Alfred gets back. They’re down here already.”

And she thought getting naked in the Batcave would be the weirdest thing to happen to her tonight. This morning. Now she was going to be baby-watching in the Batcave. Well, when she first ran into Robin, he _had_ said that the job attracted weird. She’d grown up watching her dad try and set up his ridiculous clues, too, it wasn’t like she had low standards for weird.

They watched Tim breathe and the IV drip blood back into him until Alfred came back, with fresh clothing for her. The black sweatpants she was sure belonged to Cass; the t-shirt and sweatshirt she would have picked as belonging to Dick even if they didn’t smell faintly of a masculine deodorant. Nothing belonging to Cass would fit her through the chest, unless it was _really_ loose. No underwear. Commando it was, though Alfred directed her to put her dirty clothing in a basket outside.

With one last glance at her wounded friend, she headed to the showers to wash his blood out of her hair.

It was a great shower, excellent water pressure and hot water that soothed her muscles, but she didn’t stay in for long. She dried off, put on her loaner clothes, and went straight back to Tim - now surrounded by Batman (still blood-smeared, cowl down, and yep, she was right about his identity), an older woman, and a cradle, as well as Dick and Alfred. “Honestly, Bruce, four hours into the new year before requiring my services is a new record,” the woman said. She was already bent over Tim’s neck and inspecting the cut. “He was very lucky. Without the immediate pressure he almost certainly would have died.”

“That was Steph,” Dick said. He had a baby on his lap, dressed in pink (right again! Super cute baby). “She helped bring him in too, she’s just washing up.”

“I’m back,” she said.

“Excellent first aid, young lady,” the woman said. “Now, I need to stitch Tim up. And stop lurking about, Bruce, Tim will be fine.”

Batman - she still couldn’t think of him as _Bruce_ even cowl down - was hovering. _Now_ he looked anxious. Almost paternal. “Are you sure?” he asked.

“As sure as I can be. Let me do my job, now.”

“Get some sleep, B,” Dick said. “Steph and I will stay with him.”

“You’re exhausted,” Batman said.

“So are you. You sleep first, then spell me later.”

They stared at each other. Steph felt _so_ like an outsider. She was watching someone else’s family here. Tim’s family. This was why he always had stuff to say about Batman and Dick, but so little about his own dad. Had anyone even told Tim’s dad what had happened?

Oh, shit, she hadn’t told her _mom_. She was going to be so grounded when she got back home. She’d planned to be back home by now, not hanging out underground with the big leagues and a blood-deprived Tim. If she’d thought to call earlier and say she was sleeping over with a friend, it’d be fine, but no! Uuuurgh, there went being Spoiler for a week or two.

While Steph freaked, Batman lost the staring contest. She didn’t know that happened to Batman. She hadn’t even considered that it _might_ happen to Batman.

The doctor lady huffed half a laugh. “Don’t think you’re off the hook, young man,” she told Dick. “I see those children there. Don’t think I haven’t worked out who they belong to.”

“Yeah…”

“Can I hold one?” Steph asked. She was getting to that strange early-morning state where she was tired but not-tired, her brain insistently staying awake despite her body sending messages that she’d been through too much stress today and it was okay to crash. She was up for holding a baby while she kept waiting for Tim to get back to consciousness.

In reply, Dick passed her the one he was holding, the one in pink, and retrieved a baby in yellow from the cradle. Steph instinctively supported the little girl’s head. “What’s her name?”

“Bridget.”

Bridget was warm and soft and, removed from her father’s arms, wriggly. She squirmed about around Steph’s breasts, trying to focus her little baby eyes on Steph’s face, looking for a comfortable position. When she didn’t find one she started to fuss and grizzle. Steph rocked her back and forth as she watched the doctor work on Tim, and eventually the baby settled down. The one on Dick’s lap slept quietly through her own relocation.

At last the doctor straightened up, giving Steph a clear view of the neat bandage over the cut in Tim’s neck, orange patches of antiseptic peeking out from beneath. He looked better. Not so pale. “He’s going to wake up with a crushing headache,” the doctor said. “You know the drill. I mean it about bed rest, these aren’t the sort of stitches he can risk tearing.”

“Yes, Dr Thompkins.”

“And I want to see both those girls before I leave in the morning.”

“Yes, Dr Thompkins.”

The doctor sighed and stroked the face of the baby Dick was holding. Steph hadn’t asked her name, neither the other baby’s nor the doctor’s, hadn’t wanted to speak much while Tim was so injured and everyone focused mostly on him. “You know you can tell me anything you need.” For the first time the doctor didn’t sound peremptory (not that Steph blamed her, getting a house call at three in the morning on New Year’s Day!), just tired. “Ring ahead if you want it to be formal.”

Dick said meekly, “Yes, Dr Thompkins.”

Someone else’s family, Steph thought. She shouldn’t be here. Bit late now, after she’d used the shower and borrowed a bunch of clothing (and was wearing it without any underwear on, oh god) and was hanging on to someone else’s kid.

The doctor turned to her then. “I’m sorry I didn’t introduce myself earlier. Leslie Thompkins.”

“Steph Brown, and it’s okay. I’d rather Tim didn’t bleed to death.”

“I take it you’re in the same business as all the rest of the boys?”

For all the doctor’s kind face was creased in slight disapproval, Steph couldn’t help but laugh to hear Batman get lumped in with ’the boys.’ It might have been something that was funny mostly because she was tired. “Yeah,” she said. “I’m Spoiler.”

Dr Thompkins sighed again. “You did a good job with the first aid, like I said. If you ever need more than that, I run a free clinic in Crime Alley. Stephanie Brown and Spoiler are both welcome to come to me for assistance.”

“Really?” Steph couldn’t help but perk up a bit. She didn’t have the fancy cave with all the medical stuff. She did have a nasty scar on her right thigh where she’d had to let a cut heal messy for fear her usual doctor would ask too many questions.

“Really,” Dr Thompkins said. “I don’t want any of you to get hurt.” She glared out the infirmary door in the direction Batman had gone. To Dick, she added, “I’m going to turn in for the rest of the morning. Try not to have any more medical crises while I sleep.”

“Aw, Leslie, we’re all safe down here. We’ll let you know if Tim takes a turn for the worse.”

With that assurance, Doctor Thompkins left, and Steph and Dick were alone. Kind of. Unconscious Tim and the two sleeping babies didn’t really count.

“It’s good of you to stay with him,” Dick said suddenly.

“Me?” Steph smothered a yawn. “What about you? You’re watching four kids now. Besides, Tim would do the same for me.”

“After all that time you spent keeping him from bleeding to death I’d sure hope so.” A pause. “If you’re sick of holding Bridget don’t feel like you have to keep hanging on to her. Other people’s children and all that. Feel free to pass her back when you need.”

“Nah,” Steph said. Baby Bridget was asleep and drooling, and Steph was warm and comfortable. “She’s cute, and anyway, babies need to be held, like, all the time. I’ll pass her back when she needs a diaper change or starts screaming.”

That got a smile from Dick - the first she’d seen from him all night, Steph realised with a shock. Normally Nightwing was as cheerful as she was. It vanished as fast as it appeared. “When she stops being cute, in other words,” he said.

“Exactly.”

“Fair enough.”

For a few more minutes the only sound was the beeping of Tim’s heart monitor, mercifully steady. “Thanks for letting me stay,” she said. “I know Batman doesn’t trust me, but I won’t tell, I promise. Tim’s my friend.”

Another smile flitted across Dick’s face, sadder than before. “After all that time you spent stopping Tim from bleeding to death? He trusts you now.”

That was good to know. Steph yawned again. It had to be dawn outside.

She barely noticed Dick extricating the baby from her arms, or pulling a blanket over her. She barely noticed falling asleep to the steady beep of the heartbeat monitor - not a heartbeat she’d ever expected to fall asleep to, but it would more than do to know it was still beating.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for your patience and all the feedback! The next chapter will be up in ten days again.
> 
>  
> 
> NEXT TIME:
> 
> Once again Dick just wanted to curl up into a ball and cry. First there was everything with the babies, the stuff that dredged up the other stuff, then there was Babs, and now Tim was hurt and Jason might be back, but having him back as an enemy…
> 
> They had to find a way to bring him back home.


	20. Postmortem

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Time for some recovery. For a given value of "some" and "recovery."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No special warnings for this chapter.

“How are they?”

Dick should have known Bruce would only come back when Steph was safely asleep. Thanking her directly for helping Tim would have approached emotional competence and recognisable social skills. Neither were things Bruce was known for in a crisis.

“You’d know better than me how much knockout juice Alfred gave Tim. Steph’s just tired. Unlike some people she seems okay with sleeping for more than three hours.”

He’d moved Tim’s friend to the other bed once he was sure she was out. Since she hadn’t stirred when Amy and Bridget started noisily demanding food and a change, he was absolutely positive Spoiler was fast asleep.

“Speak for yourself,” Bruce said.

“I’m fine. Not like I did anything strenuous today.” He’d hit Jason. _Jason_. In earnest. He’d threatened Jason and meant it. No matter what his little brother thought, he could - he had - “I could use a spar, once Alfred’s up.”

Steph’s words about holding babies all the time haunted him. True, he had clung to his children for the first forty-eight hours, but after that he’d realised that he didn’t deserve to touch them. He still didn’t, but now both Bruce and Steph said he had to, that they needed it. What if he’d ruined his daughters already? What if him touching them ruined them? Damned if he did and damned if he didn’t.

He wanted to spend all that time cuddling them. Truly, the only thing that stopped him was the knowledge of his unworthiness.

Sparring was different. He could stand Bruce hitting him. He could stand hitting back. He _needed_ the physical activity. Cass had proven that to his satisfaction. And hers.

“Once Alfred’s up,” Bruce agreed. He stared over at the girls for a few long seconds before returning his attention to Tim.

“Was it really Jason?” Dick asked. “I can’t believe it, Bruce. It’s not like him.”

“Spoiler said it was the Red Hood, and Barbara said that Jason is the Red Hood.” He visibly brooded a bit more. “It fits with the incident on Christmas Eve. Attacking Tim, taunting me about my failure to save someone…”

“So you do believe it was him.”

No answer, for what seemed like the longest time. “Perhaps,” Bruce said at last. The words sounded ripped from his throat. “I agree. The Jason I - we - knew would never have never attempted to kill Tim.”

“He was so angry when we talked. He thought we’d forgotten him!”

Once again Bruce said nothing.

He believed it, Dick realised. He thought that because he didn’t recognise Jason on the street that he really had forgotten him. “Bruce. You know it’s not logical to see a dark-haired seventeen-year-old on the street and think _that’s my dead fifteen-year-old son come back to life_. I’m _glad_ you weren’t seeing Jason everywhere you turned.” Anymore. He’d done it plenty for the year after Jason died.

“He was - he _is_ \- my son,” Bruce said, a cold anger in his voice. “I should have known him.”

“I saw him too,” Dick reminded him.

“You were out of your mind. I wasn’t. I was just - distracted.”

“It’s still not your fault!”

Bruce whirled around, practically snarling. “Then whose it is, Dick?”

“Mine,” Dick said immediately. “You were thinking about me, and so you missed him. Jason would agree.” He’d said as much. Straight from the horse’s mouth.

Bruce turned back to Tim. “You blame yourself too much.”

“I learned from the best.”

As if he hadn’t heard, Bruce continued, “I expect Jason will continue with a pattern of attention-seeking crimes. If I bench Tim while he recovers, his grudge against Robin may be satisfied, provoking him to focus his attention on either me or the Joker. The alias would suggest he’s trying to bait the latter.”

It hurt to analyse Jason as he would any other criminal, but it had to be done. Jason had hurt Tim. “And the Joker isn’t one to ignore bait,” Dick finished. “One way or another, sooner or later, he always responds.” It was one of the few predictable things about him.

“Did he say anything about his plans?”

Dick thought back. It had only been a few hours ago. He could remember, surely. “He said…” Oh god, how could he have forgotten? “He said he wanted to make you kill the Joker.”

Barely, just barely, Bruce flinched. Dick knew how close he had come to doing exactly that in the weeks after Jason died. He suspected sometimes Bruce had to restrain himself from going out and hunting the Joker down still. When he wasn’t consumed by grief it was the very last thing he wanted to do. He did not want to dishonour Jason’s memory with the Joker’s blood.

But rather than show any further weakness, Bruce said, “I will plan for that, then.”

Once again Dick just wanted to curl up into a ball and cry. First there was everything with the babies, the stuff that dredged up the other stuff, then there was Babs, and now Tim was hurt and Jason might be back, but having him back as an enemy…

They had to find a way to bring him back home.

“You should sleep,” Bruce said. “Before sparring. I don’t want to hurt you.”

“Love to,” Dick said. “Leslie wanted to see the girls first, though. I think she’s mad I didn’t tell her earlier.”

It made Bruce frown even harder. “They might have benefited from medical examination.”

Dick’s heart sank further. He really was going to ruin them. “Maybe.”

“Dick. Sleep. At least an hour.”

“Yes, dad,” Dick sighed. Maybe Tim would be awake by then. Or maybe not. Bruce would look after Amy and Bridget.

He collapsed on the same cot Bruce had been sleeping on in the Batcave. It wasn’t the first time he’d slept down there. He doubted it would be the last. He fell asleep to the hum of the computers and woke two hours later to crying. More exhausted now than when he fell asleep in the first place, he went to collect his girls. Wordlessly, he took them from Bruce and headed upstairs to heat up their formula.

Again and again. Until they were big enough to feed themselves, a thing he’d have to teach them to do. Just yesterday he’d been feeling better about having them, but now it was back in the pit. _Stop it, Grayson. You have to get better. There’s nothing wrong here, nothing that wasn’t your own fault._

Leslie found him in the kitchen, the soft winter sunshine a bright contrast to Dick’s mood. “How’s Tim?” she asked as she busied herself making tea - and being allowed to make her own was a privilege Alfred rarely granted. The butler must be exhausted himself.

“Asleep. A better colour than a few hours ago.”

“Good. I’ll check on him soon myself.” The kettle boiled, Leslie poured. For both of them, though Dick didn’t particularly like black tea. The smell was still relaxing, a reminder of afternoons spent doing homework down here while Alfred prepared dinner. “And you, Dick?”

“Oh, you know. I’m coping.”

“Coping,” Leslie repeated, voice flat. “Coping with having two young children put in your care at what Alfred told me was a moment’s notice.”

“Yeah.”

Even to him, it didn’t sound convincing. Darn. Leslie would pick that up straight away. And she had, judging by her narrowed eyes. “I’ve known you since you were a little boy,” she said. “You’re not coping with this at all, are you?”

“I am,” Dick said stubbornly. “I have to.”

“Not alone, you don’t. And you don’t have to be dependent on Bruce for everything, either. I can help you find support groups for other single fathers or teenage parents. People going through the same sort of thing you are.”

The same thing he was going through? Dick snorted in disbelief before he could stop himself. “I doubt it,” he said bitterly.

Leslie placed a mug of tea next to him as he finished pouring the warm formula into bottles. “Some of them will be,” she said. “Raising a child is exhausting and requires sacrifice. Some of them will be giving up on careers or college like you’ll almost certainly have to put Nightwing on the backburner. Some of them won’t have a partner. Some of them will have become parents unexpectedly.”

Instead of answering, Dick started to feed Amy. She was fussy this morning, for whatever reason. She sucked at the bottle, then stopped to grizzle, then started again. Dick felt Leslie’s eyes on him the whole time. He felt inadequate.

“You haven’t said anything about their mother.”

From anyone but Leslie - Bruce for sure, Tim, even Alfred - it would have sounded judgmental. Well, maybe not Cass, but Cass didn’t have preconceived notions about sex beyond ’it should be between consenting adults.’ But because it was Leslie, he said, “What’s there to tell?”

“Her relationship to you,” Leslie said, softly and gently. “Why you’ve had these week-old babies for the full week. Why she didn’t tell you anything about them beforehand.”

With Amy’s bottle empty, Dick made to feed Bridget. There were words stuck in his throat. He couldn’t bear to speak them aloud.

If he said it, they’d all know. Even his babies would know, sooner or later. And it would still be his fault.

He swallowed, choked a bit, and swallowed again. He could at least tell Leslie the basics, right? It wasn’t like the family didn’t know _that_. “Their mother’s in prison,” he said at last. “That’s where they were born. She - she wants something to hold over Nightwing. We think.”

“Oh, Dick.”

So quiet. So compassionate-sounding. “It’s my fault,” he said. “I was careless, I never followed up, I should never have let her-“

He cut himself off before the damning words could make their way out of his mouth. It hadn’t happened, not like that. Leslie didn’t need to know about it. Nobody needed to know about it.

“Never should have _let her_?” Leslie asked. “Let her…” She trailed off deliberately, leaving the space for Dick to answer. To fill in the rest.

“Nothing. It doesn’t matter.”

“It matters.”

“No, it doesn’t.” He wouldn’t let it matter, not to anyone but him.

“Dick, were you going to say you ‘let’ their mother have sex with you?”

“No,” he lied, without a second thought.

“ _Dick._ ”

“No!”

He was breathing hard. His hands were shaking. His heart was pounding. Worse, Bridget was done drinking and she was wriggling around in his arms. He put her down before he could grasp her too tight and hurt her.

He took a few deep breaths, put on a smile, and said, “It was a bad idea, Leslie. That’s all. I’m a grown-up now, so I have to take the consequences.”

There was an awful, tense moment. The sort his life was full of now. Leslie was the one to crack. “All right. Just think about it, Dick, that’s all I ask. Talk to someone when you think you can. Not me, someone removed from the situation. Don’t let it fester.”

“There’s nothing to let fester,” Dick said.

“If you say so.” Raising her hands to indicate she was letting the topic go, she moved closer to get a better look at the girls. “Will you let me give them a quick exam?”

“You _are_ the family doctor.”

Still, there was a flutter of anxiety that he didn’t know whether it came from seeing someone else, someone not-quite-family, near them, or because Leslie had just pushed at him. Leslie’s hands on them were quick and sure, checking pudgy limbs and breathing and heartbeat. She asked him questions about how well and often they ate and slept, what they spat up and shat out.

“They seem healthy,” Leslie concluded. “Well-fed, well-rested. So far you’re doing well with them.”

“Thanks,” he said awkwardly.

“Just remember. If you need to talk to someone who isn’t Bruce, I’ll be here. Or I’ll point you to someone else, someone more removed. Whatever you need.”

“There’s nothing,” Dick said. It wasn’t going to work. Sooner or later, someone was going to find out.

 

—

 

Tim woke up to a blinding headache. To be completely fair, it was better than the not-waking-up-at-all that he’d expected when he’d passed out. No, headache aside, the beeping of the heart monitor and the familiar ceiling of the Batcave were very good things. Even the ache in his ribs from last week was welcome.

“You’re awake,” Bruce’s soft voice said beside him. Even better. With an effort, Tim tilted his head to see Bruce, cowl down, sitting next to him. “You lost a lot of blood, in spite of Spoiler’s best efforts. Leslie stitched you up. You’ll be fine.” 

“My father?” Tim croaked. Even the slight movements of speaking made him hyper-aware of the cut. Or maybe that awareness was just fear from last night, unexamined and unprocessed, from that moment when he’d seen the knife swinging towards him and known he wouldn’t be able to get out of the way in time.

“Dick took care of it. I don’t know what he said.”

“Any scarring?”

“There probably will be. It was a reasonably shallow cut, though, so concealer will do once it’s healed.”

Until then it would be high collars, Tim took it. That was fine. He could do high collars in front of his dad. It was winter, his dad wouldn’t think anything of it. By summer he’d be able to cover it with makeup or explain it as a scratch.

“Steph?”

“Behind you,” Bruce said. “Asleep. Not hurt badly.”

“You brought her here?” he asked. He’d never expected Bruce to trust her enough to tell her their identities. Tim turned his head the other way and saw a familiar sweep of blonde hair spilling out from under a dark green blanket on the bed next to his. No heart monitor next to her. “What’s ‘not hurt badly’ mean?”

“He punched her in the left kidney. She’ll be in pain, but nothing too drastic, and the damage wasn’t bad.” Bruce hesitated, then said, “Tim, we believe the Red Hood to be Jason Todd.”

That…was not what he’d expected. It did explain how the Red Hood had known how to track down Nightwing.

Jason Todd was dead. That was indisputable. Tim had photographs of the coffin; he’d verified it with the funeral director. Before he’d approached even Dick about the matter of Robin, Tim had wanted to be as certain as he could have been that Jason was dead. From what he’d found out about it, Bruce had held Jason’s corpse in his arms and seen for himself that his son was gone. So for Bruce to be saying that Jason was actually _alive_ \- well, he wouldn’t do it without good reason. He wouldn’t admit it without nigh-irrefutable reason.

“Why do you think that?” It did make sense of some of what he’d said the night before.

“Oracle found footage of him without his helmet. Then he used the party last night to infiltrate the Manor, where Dick found him and confronted him. He said he wanted to kill you.”

For taking Robin. Tim could only imagine. “So he said last night. How did he come back?”

“We’re not sure,” Bruce said, voice heavy. “I have a theory.”

Here was the part where you didn’t rush Bruce. Tim had only known him well for about a year, and he knew that much. If he gave Bruce another minute, he’d say it. He waited while his mentor checked his vital signs. 

“Ra’s al Ghul,” he said at last. “The Lazarus Pits. It’s the sort of thing he’d do. A woman matching the description of his daughter Talia has been associating with the Red Hood. And Lazarus Syndrome would explain some of Jason’s…recent behaviour.”

The Lazarus Pits. When Tim had read those files he’d barely believed it. It sounded outlandish, even by Gotham’s standards. Hidden springs of some mysterious liquid that could restore the dead to life, at the cost of some of their sanity? Absurd. But Batman had documented quite a bit of the unnaturally long life of Ra’s al Ghul, as well as his deteriorating psyche. Tim believed.

“He’s not totally gone,” Tim said. “He said he would never hurt Dick’s daughters.”

There was a moment of terrible pain writ clear on Bruce’s face. “Jason was always very protective of children.” His face smoothed back out, shedding ten years of age and grief in a second. “Leslie wanted to see you before she left. I’ll send her right down.”

And _that_ , Tim knew, was code for _I can’t handle this conversation anymore._ He nodded goodbye. 

Besides, if Bruce left to get Leslie, maybe Leslie would okay some pain medication. He could see the drip next to him, keeping him hydrated. They’d also probably given him blood while he slept. Tim pushed through the pain to roll over and get a better look at Steph. Her hair was clean, and she clearly wasn’t wearing her Spoiler gear. She mumbled something in her sleep and turned over. She didn’t look badly hurt, like Bruce had said.

“Hurt?” Cass asked.

Tim nearly jumped out of the bed, bad ideas be damned. When had she arrived? “Headache. Throat hurts,” Tim said. “How was your patrol?”

She frowned over the words. “Busy. Tried to find you first. I found the Riddler instead. Oracle helped.” And none of them could stand by while someone preyed on drunk partygoers. Tim didn’t blame her. Stopping that sort of thing was why they went out in the first place. And speaking of…

“Patrol with Steph for me tonight?”

He admired Steph. He trusted Steph. But she was still inexperienced and did better with someone looking out for her. He wasn’t going to be able to. He doubted Dick would be out tonight to keep an eye on her for him.

“Yes.”

“Thank you.”

“You are welcome.” Cass smiled at him. “Rest now.”

She left as quietly as she entered. Tim drifted, brain pounding in his skull. Leslie could not get there quick enough. His throat stung and itched around the stitches. It seemed an hour before he heard Leslie’s steps approaching. “Tim?”

“I’m awake.”

“Good, good. Are you thirsty?”

“Yes,” Tim admitted, and was given some water. Leslie ran through the same questions as she had last time Tim was brought to the Batcave too injured to stand. It probably said something about him that he was already thinking of them as ‘the usual questions.’ He’d made some poor life choices.

At last, Leslie said, “I think you’re clear to get up, at least. Take it easy, though. Bruce tells me you’re still recovering from bruised ribs.”

The Red Hood again. Jason Todd. His predecessor. Not someone he’d ever thought to meet, for obvious reasons. If Bruce had needed him after Jason had died, he was going to need him now that Jason was alive again. Dick too.

It sucked to realise that the people you looked up to most in the world weren’t perfect and capable of handling every problem. Tim had known that in his head for a while. Now he was feeling it in his heart. He was thirteen, he wasn’t supposed to be the strong one in this situation.

He was Robin. He was up to the challenge. It still wasn’t a challenge he was eager to face.

Bruce would be benching him anyway. He’d be down here in the Cave for the next few weeks and lying to his father more than ever. And Dick, well. Out there on the streets it would be Bruce, Cass, and Steph. And it wasn’t likely that Bruce would want to work with Steph, even with Cass along. It was a mess.

He’d been out all night and wasn’t going to be able to get back by the next day. No matter what Dick said, his dad was going to want to know why. What was he going to _say_?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks everyone for your feedback and patience! The next chapter will be up in ten days, but after that, hopefully, I'll be back to weekly posts.
> 
>  
> 
> NEXT TIME:
> 
> “I know we’d broken up. It’s not like he cheated on me or anything like that. It’s just - just - I thought we ended it on good terms - I thought he meant it when he said he still wanted to be friends with me!”
> 
> Damn it, she was almost in tears. She was supposed to be over this. She wasn’t supposed to get all weepy over a guy. She’d been Batgirl, she’d been as good as any of them at kicking criminal butt and taking names. Even now she could still defend herself and she’d just proved how useful she could be.


	21. Checking Up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Barbara thinks some things through.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is a content note for this chapter that is also a significant spoiler. I've put it in the endnotes. As usual, mind the tags and the more detailed warning on chapter one.

It had not been the most successful night out for Team Bat, but Babs was actually happy with her part in it. Oracle had done her share of the technological work. It wasn’t a glamorous way of fighting crime, and it didn’t entirely fill the need to go out there and _do_ something. It was a hell of a lot better than nothing.

She started a new file up. Red Hood II, real name Jason Todd.

Batgirl had only worked with the second Robin a few times. In those uncomfortable weeks after Dick’s fifteenth birthday and firing from Robin, so quickly followed by Jason’s hiring and adoption, Bruce hadn’t kept her in the loop. She’d found all that out after the fact. Bruce had probably thought she’d tell Dick everything about Jason.

She probably would have. Embarrassing as it was to remember now, at seventeen her crush on Dick had been at its peak.

_You’d tell him everything now because hiding that sort of thing from someone is wrong_ , her conscience reminded her. But she was still furious with Dick, so she decided to ignore it for the moment.

_It wasn’t like that_ , Dick’s voice insisted in the back of her mind. She ignored that too.

When she’d finally met Jason, she hadn’t been able to say she _liked_ him, exactly. He had his issues, most of them anger issues. He was a bit more violent than she preferred to be as well. But she had respected him, she had been getting to know him better and like him more, and she had mourned him when he had been killed. Jason tried hard and learned fast, and if there was anyone who knew what it was like to be held to the standards of Dick Grayson, it was her. It sucked.

_Not so perfect now, is he?_ she thought.

_It wasn’t like that_ , Dick’s voice said again.

Oracle could tell the sort of guns the Red Hood was using, and from there it was a simple matter to find who supplied and customised those weapons. The ‘hood’ itself wasn’t the sort of thing you could just throw over your head. That needed expertise and a good workshop. Even Jason would have needed technical assistance to work out the breathing and vision mechanisms in that thing, plus the demands for the workshop could usually be traced. Oracle set a search running for appropriate spaces and cross-referenced them with noise complaints, insulation purchasing, and several other apt materials in the database.

All of them (except the noise complaints) would go to shell companies, possibly shell companies of shell companies, but with the power of her computers, she felt confident that she could narrow some things down. Especially if she factored in routes between Wayne Manor and the place where Tim was attacked.

A good neighbourhood. Jason had always been uncomfortable with any more obvious wealth than the reasonably middle-class.

If you wanted to vanish, change your habits. Bruce had taught them all that lesson. Jason knew full well that if any of them knew he was back in Gotham (after coming back from the dead; Barbara was still clamping down on the shock and a mixture of horror and joy), the first place they’d look for him was in the slums.

Clever. Not clever enough. 

She was sorry she had to hunt him down like this. (And, okay, she was _so happy_ she could finally be useful again.) Just off the top of her head she could think of about a dozen good reasons Jason would or might have to be angry with Bruce - but hurting Tim and Spoiler was crossing a line. And Bruce, for all his flaws, probably wouldn’t just _leave_ Jason, not if he’d learnt his lesson with Dick. He’d get Jason - something. Therapy. Something.

Her phone rang. Her civilian phone. “Dad?”

“Hi, Babs.” Her father’s voice was warm but tired. He always worked New Year’s Eve since becoming Commissioner; it was a hot night for major villains and petty street crime alike. The Commish couldn’t be out at a party. He probably hadn’t slept yet and was checking in on her before he did. “Just calling to say happy New Year.”

“Happy New Year to you too, dad. Was work bad last night?”

“Easiest New Year for the last five years,” her father said. “The Riddler made a nuisance of himself with rigged guide books for some tourists, but nobody broke out of Arkham, thank God. And you?”

“Just a quiet night at home. You know me, I’m not exactly a party girl.” She hadn’t been before the Joker - and now it was infinitely harder. The Joker had taken the option of dancing the night away from her. “A friend of mine dropped by, so I wasn’t alone.”

“That’s good. Good.” There was an extremely awkward pause, before her father cleared his throat. “I know you hate me asking this, but are you all right? Just checking. With the holiday and all.”

She did hate it. Now. Endless people asking her that exact thing over the last eighteen months had left her sour on the question. Too many people asking if she was all right, what could they do, not enough space for her to do things herself. She’d fought with her father more than anyone else over it.

He’d want to hear about her New Year, which she couldn’t tell him about. But what was a dad for if not to help her with (ex-)boyfriend troubles? “I had a fight with Dick a few days ago,” she confessed.

“Dick? Dick Grayson? I thought you broke up with him last year.”

“I did,” she said, and her voice cracked in spite of herself. Stupid Dick. It had been almost a year since they broke up. She was supposed to be over him. “I found out - right after we broke up, a few days after we broke up - he slept with a woman he knew I hate.”

She would have told him it was Tarantula, but she didn’t exactly want to make it known that Dick Grayson and Tarantula had any sort of _intimate_ connection. The existence of birth certificates were bad enough.

_It wasn’t like that!_

“Oh, sweetheart.”

“I know we’d broken up. It’s not like he cheated on me or anything like that. It’s just - just - I thought we ended it on good terms - I thought he meant it when he said he still wanted to be friends with me!”

Damn it, she was almost in tears. She was supposed to be over this. She _wasn’t_ supposed to get all weepy over a guy. She’d been Batgirl, she’d been as good as any of them at kicking criminal butt and taking names. Even now she could still defend herself and she’d just proved how useful she could be. She hated it, and hated hating herself.

“Sweetheart,” her father said again, “If he hurts you… you have to let that sort of person go. Your mother could tell you that. You’re better off without him in your life if that’s the case.”

She didn’t want to let Dick go, she wanted her friend. She wanted none of this to have ever happened. But wanting didn’t make it so. It never would. Barbara didn’t know if she could handle being friends with Dick when he was raising Tarantula’s children. She’d try, for his sake she’d try, but even so… She took a deep breath. “I’ll be all right, Dad. We’ll work it out somehow.”

Even if they weren’t ever getting back together. She hadn’t realised how much she’d hoped they might one day be able to work a romantic relationship out again. Too late now.

“If that makes you happy. You know I only want the best for you.”

“I know. But, dad, I can’t help but think - is some of it my fault?”

“Sweetheart, you can break up with whoever you want to for whatever reasons you want.”

She knew _that_. Last year she hadn’t been able to deal with romance. She didn’t feel ready to start dating again now. Breaking up with Dick had been good for her and fair to him. “No, I mean, I think I was a bad friend to him afterwards.”

Her father snorted. “From what you just said, he wasn’t a good friend to you.”

“It’s just so _unlike_ him,” she said.

_It wasn’t like that!_

Cass said he’d panicked when she’d pinned him down, panicked badly enough that she was worried.

If Dick had been a _female_ friend of hers…she knew what questions she would have been asking.

“Dad,” she said, mouth dry, “I think I’ve been a _really_ bad friend. I’ll call you back.”

She could imagine the expression on her father’s face, bushy brows rising. “Okay, sweetheart. You let me know if you need any help.” Babs hung up, too sick to her stomach even to feel annoyed at the offer of help. Fingers shaking just a little, she hit the button to call Dick. If she was right - if she was _close_ to right - she owed him such an apology.

He picked up on the third ring. “Hey, Babs,” he said. He sounded exhausted.

He was running around after two children, not an angle she’d considered. _Tarantula’s_ children. Babs really hoped she was wrong now, because if she wasn’t, this situation might be worse than she’d thought.

“Hey, Dick,” she said. First things first, though: “How’s Robin?”

“The Red Hood cut his throat,” Dick said. He sounded numb. Barbara understood. Jason had done that. _Jason_. “Not too deep, and thanks to Steph he’s okay. We got some blood back in him, he’s been stitched up, and he’s sleeping right now.”

Barbara sighed. She’d been worried since she’d heard Spoiler’s call, but she and Cass had to keep working on saving those tourists, and she’d figured no news was good news. “Oh, good,” she said. “Anyway, I called you about something else, too. You know Cass came to visit me last night?”

“Yeah,” Dick said.

“She told me you were panicking during training. When she pinned you down.”

“Yeah,” Dick said again, caution replacing the tiredness in his voice.

“You told me -“ she tried to get the words out, failed, tried again “- that ‘it wasn’t like that’ with Tarantula. I need to ask, Dick - what _was_ it like? Because I know what it sounds like, now.”

Immediately her ears were hit by the sound of a dial tone.

He’d hung up on her, for the first time ever. She thought she deserved it.

 

—

 

“Can I talk to you?” Leslie asked.

Bruce was running sightings of the Red Hood. He didn’t want to be disturbed. But Leslie deserved better. “Of course,” he said. “Is Tim still all right?”

“Tim will be fine, if he follows medical advice,” Leslie said. “I’m trusting Alfred to enforce it. I wanted to talk about Dick.”

“What about Dick?”

“That boy is living on a cliff’s edge,” Leslie said sharply. “You know perfectly well how much he values his independence from you.”

“He’ll be moving into the penthouse soon,” Bruce told her. “He’ll be better off out of the manor.” Dick could never be a burden, and Bruce was only too happy to provide for him, but he knew Dick didn’t see things the same way.

“Good.” She hesitated. “Bruce. Has he told you anything about the girls’ mother?”

“Very little. I know who she is.”

“Has he told you anything about his relationship with her?”

“No.”

Leslie sighed. “He’s given me reason to believe she abused and assaulted him. Possibly even raped him.”

Bruce stopped what he was doing. Rape? Leslie thought _that woman_ had raped Dick? “You’re serious?” he asked.

“Serious, but not certain. I have a few patients a week tell me something like what Dick just said to me. Don’t you dare push him, Bruce. He’ll tell you when he’s ready to talk. I just don’t want anyone making comments blaming him for what’s happened. No calling him irresponsible, no cracks at his taste in girlfriends. Nothing.”

“I can’t stop other people calling him irresponsible,” Bruce pointed out. He felt - he felt - Assault and/or rape. It would explain - certain attitudes. The shame. How he didn’t want to touch his daughters sometimes. “He doesn’t want to hide his daughters.”

“Then he doesn’t get it from you or anyone else in this house. I am assuming that you’ve discussed options that don’t involve single fatherhood.”

“He wouldn’t hear it,” Bruce said. “After what CPS did to him, he doesn’t trust them.” Leslie had been there for him, for them, while Bruce had tried to get Dick out of juvie. And the months afterwards, when Dick hadn’t been able to trust _anyone_.

Bruce had earned that trust after a while. Robin had helped. Gotham CPS had never redeemed itself in Dick’s eyes.

“At least you talked to him about it,” Leslie sighed.

He bristled at the implication. Of course he talked to Dick about this. He’d learned better over the past few years. Fighting with Dick made neither of them happy. Besides, he knew that Dick would need _someone_. Probably several someones. Bruce had had a hard enough time as a single father even with Alfred and unlimited amounts of money. “I refuse to let him face this alone,” Bruce ground out.

“Good.”

“Is that all?” Bruce asked, still offended.

“That’s all,” Leslie said. “Look after them all, Bruce, and call me if you need me. Any time.”

He waited until she was gone, put the Red Hood sightings on a dedicated screen, and pulled up Catalina Flores’ information again. 

There were no sex offender flags, but even his system missed them so often, with women. Not long after Jason became Robin, the two of them had caught a female serial rapist. She hadn’t believed she even _could_ rape a man, to Jason’s fury and disbelief. They had found evidence, enough that it got to the prosecutors, but the last Bruce had heard the trial was ongoing.

Men, embarrassed, often did not let on when a woman had taken advantage of them. Dick was supposed to know _better_ than to hide _-_

But that sort of thinking wouldn’t help Dick. It could only hurt him.

If, indeed, Leslie was right.

He trusted her read on the situation. He knew she saw a lot of victims of domestic violence and sexual assault in the course of her work. Whatever Dick had said to set off her alarms and started making her think - _that_ , he trusted it was not her imagination. It made sense of much of Dick’s behaviour.

Bruce did not know what to do. It made sense, but he didn’t know for sure what had happened. Dick clearly didn’t want to speak about it. Nine months, and he hadn’t said a word.

It could not be allowed to continue. He shouldn’t push. It was an irreconcilable conflict.

An incoming call snapped him out of it.

“Oracle,” he said, refocusing on the other crisis, “any news of the Red Hood?”

“I have a few possible locations for one of his main bases,” the computerised voice said. Then, Barbara’s voice took over. “But that’s not why I called. It’s about Dick.”

He hesitated. A different problem, but equally worth his time. “I’m listening.”

“Cass came to me last night and told me he panicked when she held him down in sparring. Like he used to panic sometimes when he was younger. And combined with…some other things…he said to me - Bruce, look, I’m not sure he consented to…what happened… with Flores. He hung up on me when I asked him just then, but if he’s having panic attacks during sparring -”

Two sources, now. Two people. Two people he trusted. A decision was called for. It was…easier…to respond as Batman assessing Nightwing’s fitness, than as Dick’s father, so that was what he did.

“- he’s in no condition to be on the streets.”

He could hear Oracle’s hesitation.

“We don’t know anything for sure,” Bruce said. “Dick hasn’t said anything. As far as I’m aware there is no evidence -“

“No _evidence_?” Oracle said, voice icy. “You know how often we find evidence, and how often it comes down to he-said-she-said. What evidence we’ll get is in what he tells us. I tell you he might have been raped, and all you have to say is that you don’t want to send him out as Nightwing? That’s it?”

Bruce didn’t respond. He couldn’t. It was too much to process all in one go. First Jason, now this. He had faced down some of the worst individuals ever to show their faces in Gotham and seen depravities large and small. He had helped save the world from alien menaces and power-hungry would-be dictators without missing a beat. But this…

It was like the incident when Dick was nine, just starting out as Robin, the night Two-Face had beaten him almost to death. Acid burning his wrists from his desperate attempts to free himself, he hadn’t been able to process that Dick might be _dying_ \- but getting him to Leslie, that he could handle. Now, Dick might have been hurt just as badly, in a different way, and once again Bruce couldn’t face that fact in its entirety yet. He _could_ get Nightwing off the streets.

“Isn’t that what you called me for?” Bruce asked. He knew his voice sounded empty and cold. His jaw felt numb from tension. “I don’t intend to discuss Dick’s relationships with you, but I thank you for bringing the issue to my attention.”

There was a silence on the end of the line, then a strangled sound halfway between rage and resignation, and finally a dial tone. Bruce hit his own end call button and went back to work.

One problem at a time.

 

—

 

After he’d jabbed the end call button as hard as he could, shutting off Babs’ voice, Dick found himself breathing hard. Damn her, he’d been doing so well not thinking about it. Or maybe not well, but better. He’d been doing better. As long as he didn’t think about it. 

He’d never meant to tell Babs that much in the first place. He’d never meant to tell _anyone_ that much, and for the last nine months, he hadn’t.

Dick sat down, leaned over, and breathed deeply until he felt more controlled. Then he made himself go to his babies, asleep in their cribs, and smile. He even risked touching them. As usual, physical contact helped every bit as much as the breathing. Then he caught the unmistakeable smell of a dirtied diaper, but even that he was grateful for, because that meant he had to change the baby. There was something he was needed for.

And being needed for something meant that he had to think about that instead.

He took the babies and went downstairs to Alfred. Surely there was something he needed help with. Someting menial and time-consuming to occupy his attention. And if he left his phone in his room, he’d have an excuse for not picking up.

Alfred set him to dusting one of the front rooms of the house, exactly the sort of undemanding work he could drop at any minute to look after the girls, should they need it. “I used to hide in here a lot when I was smaller,” Dick told them as he worked. “Bruce hates the wallpaper. It’s pretty ugly, but I figured I could put up with it whenever I needed to get away from him for a bit. He always checked here last until he worked it out.”

He wondered if Bruce would let him go back to Bludhaven for a few days to pack up his things and move them to the penthouse. He wondered if Bruce would let him move into the penthouse at all, with Jason…doing the things he was doing.

“I don’t know if I like it better than the Manor,” he said. “It’s less personal, and still _way_ too flash for the likes of us Graysons, but it’s closer to everything. You two will probably enjoy the view. I do. You’re a bit young to grapple off the building, but I’ll teach you to do that when you’re old enough.”

No response. The girls were awake, though, blinking in their carriers. He smiled at them again, glad that it didn’t feel quite as forced this time.

When he looked up again, he spotted someone walking up to the front door, sure-footed on the salted path. Dick frowned. Most delivery people came to the back doors, where there was truck access. This wasn’t a delivery person.

Their visitor knocked at the door. Three times. No sign of Alfred, but last Dick had seen him, Alfred had been running maintenance on the elevator that led to the Batcave. So Dick went to answer it.

He opened the door on a vaguely familiar blue-eyed brunet. Before Dick could work out where he’d seen the man before, he said, “Hi, I’m Jack Drake, I live next door. I’m sorry to bother you at home, but I don’t suppose you know where my son Timothy is?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content note: this chapter contains a breach of trust between doctor and patient.
> 
>  
> 
> The bad news is that it's going to be another ten-day wait between updates. The good news is that I've nearly finished the second drafts for this story. Thanks everyone for your patience and the kind comments!
> 
>  
> 
> NEXT TIME:
> 
> Batman was already sitting at the massive computer Steph somehow hadn’t noticed the night before. “So what was it all about?” Steph asked. “Who was that guy, why was he after Tim, how’d he know who you guys are?”
> 
> No response. Like talking to a wall. She rolled her eyes behind his back, then leaned over to check his screens. There was a report from someone named Oracle, a few stills of Red Helmet in full gear, a picture of a guy in a leather jacket - “Hey, hang on,” Steph said, “I’ve seen that guy before.”


	22. Parental Supervision

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two fathers chase after their sons.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has references to child abuse through neglect.

The beeping noise was gone when Steph woke up, and for just a second she panicked. Then she realised that Tim was propped up on some pillows on the bed next to her, alive and semi-well. He smiled at her. “Hey,” he croaked at her.

“You look and sound like crap,” she said. “Your throat any less cut this morning?”

“Technically, yeah,” Tim said, and winced a bit. He might not sound so good, but he was speaking. That was definitely an improvement over last night.

“Great!” She swung her legs over the edge of her hospital-y bed, and regretted it instantly when her stomach reminded her that a big guy who knew how to hit things good had hit her not all that long ago. “Ow. Okay. _Ow_.”

A shadow nearby growled, “Be careful. You were injured last night too, even if not so severely.”

“Hiya, B,” Steph said, pretending he hadn’t startled her. “Thanks for everything.”

Batman, who she could see now was still bare-faced, and had changed into more casual clothing, made a dismissive noise in the back of his throat. “After what you did for Tim it was the least we could do.”

“Tim’s my friend,” she said. “I had to help.”

“Either way, it is appreciated.” Overcome by the stress of saying thanks, he retreated. Steph glanced back at Tim, who nodded. Steph straightened up, ignoring the pain (mostly; she couldn’t help but hobble a bit because ow, ow, _ow_ ), and followed him. She had questions she wanted answered. Questions like _who?_ And _why?_   And _can I get some aspirin?_ She thought she had a right to know.

Batman was already sitting at the massive computer Steph somehow hadn’t noticed the night before. “So what was it all about?” Steph asked. “Who was that guy, why was he after Tim, how’d he know who you guys are?”

No response. Like talking to a wall. She rolled her eyes behind his back, then leaned over to check his screens. There was a report from someone named Oracle, a few stills of Red Helmet in full gear, a picture of a guy in a leather jacket - “Hey, hang on,” Steph said, “I’ve seen that guy before.”

Batman immediately turned on her. He didn’t need to say _you had better not be lying to me, Stephanie Brown_ , because his glare did that just fine. Man. She’d thought he was scary with the cowl.

“Christmas Day,” she said, looking carefully at the slightly fuzzy photograph of a very cute, if a tad too muscular for her liking, young man with black hair and a strong jaw. “I visited Tim, and that guy drove past me. He offered me a lift. I saw his bike parked down the street from Tim’s place.”

There was a long moment while Batman fixed her with a to-the-depths-of-the-soul gaze. At last he stood, and said, “Suit up, Spoiler. I need you to show me.”

“Now? It’s broad daylight.” And she still hadn’t called her mom. And _ow_. 

“We will have to be careful,” Batman said.

Thirty minutes later they were breaking into the house across from Tim’s, in full costume and right out in the winter sunlight. Steph felt very out of place, also very sore still, but she was trying not to let it slow her down too much. She knew she was still kind of hobbling. “Is this the usual amount of security for houses here?” she asked, as Batman took care of cracking a keypad code.

“No,” he replied. “This is designed to stop me from getting in.”

“So are you locked out, then?”

“I didn’t say that.” He raised a hand to his comm and said, “Oracle.”

Steph wasn’t patched in, but whoever Batman was talking to, he wasn’t happy about it. After a minute or so, the keypad beeped in a somewhat more friendly manner, and the door clicked open.

Beyond was a strange mix of fancy house and surveillance post. The floorboards were reddish and polished shiny, the curtains were thick and beige, and Steph peeked under a dust cover to find a minimalist cream leather sofa. It contrasted with the sleeping bag laid out on the floor by a window with a view of Tim’s house and the cameras and guns scattered randomly around.

Yeah, she was pretty glad she hadn’t accepted a lift from this guy.

There was a notebook by the sleeping bag. Batman picked it up and flipped through it, pausing occasionally to read some pages more carefully.

If she didn’t know better, she would have said Batman was…sad.

She didn’t know why she was here. To keep an eye out, perhaps? She didn’t think she should be looking at this. It seemed private, which was strange, because this guy had been spying on Tim. Spying on Tim, with guns at the ready. Steph turned her back and continued poking around all the camera stuff.

“His name is Jason Todd,” Batman said, behind her. “He died almost two years ago. He wants revenge on Robin for replacing him. That’s why he attacked the two of you last night. Last night he broke into the Manor and told Nightwing his ultimate objective.”

“What’s that?” Steph asked.

“He wants me to kill the Joker.” He shut the notebook with a soft snap. “Jason was never one to break his promises.”

So that was why Red Hood had asked if she knew what had happened to Tim’s predecessor. “How come he’s back?” Steph asked. “Since he…died.” Ugh, she could have said that better. The Red Hood clearly wasn’t just anyone to Batman. She was talking about the Robin who was _murdered_. To his _dad_.

“I don’t know,” Batman said. “There are ways, some more plausible than others. I have a theory. From what I know of the process, it would not have been pleasant, and the effects on his psyche profound.”

“What are you going to do?” With Robin injured and Nightwing, uh, occupied… “Can I help?”

He set the notebook down. “Not in any fighting. It’s too dangerous. And you’re still injured.”

Steph had expected that, and she’d never let it stop her thus far. She was in this. The Red Hood had cut Tim’s throat. Besides, there was always the bright side. “I’ll help you investigate then,” she declared. He hadn’t forbidden her from _that_. If anything, by telling her he couldn’t help fight, he’d practically invited her to help investigate.

 

—

 

“Tim?” Dick asked, mind spinning. “I barely know him.”

Jack Drake’s eyes narrowed, and oh yes, Dick could definitely see the resemblance between father and son now. “Mr Grayson. In the last few days I’ve become aware that I know very little about my son’s life, but I remember how obsessed he was with you and your family’s circus when he was younger. I last saw him cutting across our grounds in this direction, _yesterday_ \- he had to have crossed this property, no matter where he was going, and I know he’s come this way a few times in the last week or so.”

It hadn’t been a few times, not by a long shot. Dick didn’t know what to do. He’d never been caught in a big lie like this before. If Mr Drake knew about Tim coming here…

Meanwhile, Tim was downstairs with a cut throat.

Dick worked some moisture into his mouth and said, “Alfred might have seen him, I don’t know for sure. Come in, we’ll help you look for Tim.”

This was the last thing they needed. The very last. From the next room, just to pile more things on him, a baby cried. Bridget, he thought. “Excuse me a second,” he said, and ducked back to where he’d been dusting. Sure enough, Bridget was the one who was crying, and Amy didn’t look far behind her.

It had to be twins. Getting one baby somewhere was a logistical difficulty. Getting two babies the same distance was a logistical nightmare. When he walked back into the hall, crying Bridget tucked into the crook of one arm and Amy in her carrier, Mr Drake started. “Are they Mr Wayne’s?” he asked.

“No,” Dick said.

Mr Drake got it. At least he didn’t say anything about it. “Let me take the other one?”

He thought about it. He knew how this man had neglected Tim for twelve years. But then again, he wasn’t trusting Jack Drake with Amy’s wellbeing any further than the kitchen. “Thanks,” he said, transferring the bulky carrier to Drake’s grasp. It made it much easier to rock Bridget back to calm.

Then he could focus on the question at hand: did he have what it took to lie bald-faced to Tim’s father while Tim was downstairs recovering from the most serious injury he’d sustained as Robin?

He could definitely use Alfred’s advice. Or Bruce’s. He’d like to know what Tim wanted too. Tim most of all.

When he got to the kitchen, he feigned surprise that Alfred wasn’t there. “Give me a second, Mr Drake, I’ll just call him up on the intercom.” That would get him the space he needed. He ducked around the corner, hit the intercom button for the cave, and said, “Alfred, you there?”

After thirty seconds, Alfred replied. “Yes, Master Richard.”

“Jack Drake is here.” Just in case he wasn’t out of earshot, he added, “You know, from next door. He says his son’s missing and he last saw him heading in this direction.”

“Oh,” Alfred said. “Oh dear.”

“Yeah. So, have you seen Tim?”

He didn’t want to say yes, he didn’t want to say no. One would be a betrayal of Bruce and the other - god, could he really lie to Tim’s dad while Tim was injured? It was cruel. He wanted Alfred to make the decision instead. Or Tim. This should be Tim’s decision to make.

“One moment, Master Richard,” Alfred said.

“Okay,” he said, then stuck his head back into the kitchen. “I caught Alfred at a bad time. Hang on a tic, Mr Drake.”

Irritation crossed Drake’s open, amiable features again. He was too polite to tell Dick to hurry it up, though. Dick, on the other hand, wanted to go right back to the intercom and ask Alfred to please, _please_ get here faster. Please.

Bruce was going to be so angry. That Jack Drake had made it to the front door at all was Dick’s fault. What with everything that had happened last night, he’d forgotten to switch the Manor’s security back to its usual state, leaving it in party mode: family and Bat-areas locked down tighter than usual, but relatively free access to the front door and entertaining spaces. _Without_ the rented security Bruce took on for appearances.

He really didn’t do anything but fuck up, did he?

He forced his face to remain still. He’d been doing a lot of that lately. Where was Alfred, and how long was he going to take? “Sorry I can’t be more help,” he said, to cover the impatient lull. “I haven’t been in Gotham much lately. And, well…”

Jack Drake understood what he was referring to there, as well. “Tim seemed like enough trouble when he was born,” he said. “I can’t imagine what two must be like. At your age, too.”

Dick felt a double spike of indignation. He could look after Amy and Bridget just fine, especially with the help he had - and what did Drake know about parenting, anyway? He kept leaving Tim alone! But he bit back his angry words and shrugged. “I’ll manage.” As long as he didn’t think about the rooftop. “Never mind me, what about Tim? How close to the house do you think he might have come?”

“No idea. I’ve been trying to keep a better eye on him lately. Now that he’s a teenager, who knows how much trouble he could get into? I just saw him heading this way from a window. He covered up his footprints, I don’t know why.”

Habit, Dick thought anxiously. Like Bruce had taught them. Only they weren’t supposed to get caught hiding their tracks. Literally hiding their tracks. The Drakes’ grounds were mostly grass, and they so rarely got snow in Gotham. Where was Bruce? Did he know about this yet? What were they going to _say?_

He was so wrapped up in his own thoughts that he noticed Jack Drake gaping at something behind him a second too late. Dick turned to find Tim, chalk white and bandaging very obvious around his throat, standing next to him. “It’s all right, Dick,” Tim said, voice quiet and strained. “I can take care of this.”

 

—

 

It had only been a few hours, but Tim was over being injured. Any time his head wanted to stop pounding, it was welcome to do so. The cut at his throat itched and stung. He wondered how close it had come to being fatal.

It was lonely down here right now, even more so when Steph poked her head in and said she and Batman were going to go do some “detectiving”. Normally Tim didn’t mind being on his own, but with nothing to do he was feeling it.

He was just considering getting up when Alfred came bustling into the cave’s medical alcove. “Master Timothy,” he said. “There is something of an emergency above stairs.”

“What is it?” he asked.

“Your father is here and inquiring into your whereabouts. He is aware you came in this direction.”

Every muscle in his body seized up. This was it. This was what he’d been afraid of. But if his father was here, the jig was up. Tim was injured, badly. There was no hiding this. “Will you help me up, please?” he asked.

“Certainly,” Alfred said. “You will find a change of clothing next to you, if you feel you can change unassisted. Your father is in the kitchen. Master Richard is currently occupying him.”

Tim nodded. Once Alfred was gone, he set to his task, fingers numb with dread, and took the elevator upstairs feeling like he was going to his doom. In the kitchen, Alfred had said. He could make it to the kitchen. His feet felt heavy. The cut and the bandages felt obvious. He’d only changed into a t-shirt, one without a collar. His father would see it immediately.

No point trying to hide it. Everything was going to come out.

He could hear Dick’s voice, and his father’s. Dick was trying to dissemble, he could tell. Or stall. He turned the final corner, and caught his father’s eyes. Jack Drake’s eyes widened immediately, his jaw dropping in shock. Dick turned around a second after that, alarm in his own eyes. “It’s all right, Dick,” Tim said. “I can take care of this.”

Both men stood, his father’s chair scraping loudly as he pushed it back, faster than Tim had thought he could move at the moment. “What the _hell_ -“ he started, before Dick extended his arm to ward him off, cradling Bridget in just the one. Then he set his daughter back in her carrier, before moving to Tim’s side. “Are you sure?” he asked quietly. When Tim nodded, he asked, “Would you like me to stay?”

Tim nodded again.

Dick took him by the elbow to help him to a seat at the kitchen table, hardly breaking eye contact with Tim’s father. Once Tim was seated, he collected both daughters and drew them close to him, watching to see how this would play out. Jack Drake, in the meantime, had gone red. He hadn’t sat down. “What,” he said, deathly quiet, looming over both him and Dick, “Happened.”

“I got in a fight,” Tim said. “I got cut. I needed stitches and treatment.”

“A fight?” his father exploded. “What were you doing in a fight? And why did you come _here_? What the hell do you think you’re doing, Tim?”

He looked down at his hands, pressed against the kitchen table. They were calloused from staff training and where they rubbed against his gloves. His arms had real muscle on them, way more than they had this time last year. Tim looked up, met his father’s eyes, and said, “I’m Robin.”

“What?”

“I’m Robin,” Tim repeated.

“No you’re not,” his father said. “You can’t be. You’re -”

“I’ve been Robin for a year,” Tim continued. Speaking made the cut sting more, but he didn’t think it was putting undue pressure on the stitches. “I’ve been going out at night to follow Batman since I was nine. I worked out the secret ages ago. When I saw Batman needed a Robin I made him take me.”

His father looked at Dick. Dick said, “It’s true.”

“That would make Wayne…” His eyes narrowed further. Tim had never seen his father so angry. “Where is he?”

“He’s out investigating the man who attacked me,” Tim said. “He does his best to stop me from getting hurt.”

“Christmas. Your split lip -“

“I got punched in the face.”

“And last night, someone cut your throat.”

“Yes.”

“And didn’t call me.”

“No.”

His father sat down, hard. The kitchen chair creaked slightly under the sudden weight of a full-grown man hitting it. “I don’t understand,” he said. He sounded as confused as he did angry, now. “Why - how -“ He turned on Dick, and Tim shifted in his seat. “This is _your_ fault,” he hissed at Dick.

Tim put his arm between the two. He would have put his whole body in the way, but he still felt heavy and tired. “It was _my_ idea,” he insisted. “Dick told me I shouldn’t. _Bruce_ told me I shouldn’t. I was the one who made them let me be Robin.”

It succeeded in getting his father’s attention, at least. “You are a child, Tim,” Jack Drake said. “You cannot possibly make this sort of decision. You aren’t old enough.”

“Old enough to leave alone at night,” Tim said. His voice sounded cold even to his own ears. His heart felt cold even in his own chest. “Old enough to leave alone for weeks. If you’d been home -“

“I would have stopped it. Yes.” He dug in his jacket pocket and pulled out his phone. “I’ll stop it now.”

Tim couldn’t let that happen, but he doubted threatening his father would work, even if he wanted to do it. Robin didn’t threaten civilians. Tim didn’t want to scare his father. Instead, he played another card.

“If you do that,” Tim said, “I’ll end up in jail.”

His father stopped. “You’re a good kid, Tim,” he said. “You’ll be fine. They’ll make a deal with you.”

“I’m not sorry.” He felt so clear, so calm. Out of the corner of his eye he could see Dick trying to hide his own stress, the arm closest to Tim twitching as though Dick ached to reach out to him for reassurance, whether his own or Tim’s he didn’t know. “A court won’t be lenient if I don’t show remorse, and they won’t settle for monitored release. Not with what I know how to do now. I’m not a non-violent offender either. I’ve _saved people_ , Dad. I’m not sorry.”

His father put his phone down with a trembling hand. “You don’t know what you’re saying.”

“I know exactly what I’m saying.”

Jack Drake looked back over at Dick, and said, “We’re leaving, Tim. I’m not having the rest of this conversation here.” Dick moved to help Tim up again, but Tim’s father said “I don’t want you anywhere near my son,” and Dick backed off again, with a wan smile at Tim when he looked away.

“At least let me get Tim’s things from downstairs,” Dick said. “He should stay warm.”

Within a minute Dick returned with a coat and scarf; Alfred must have been listening. Tim let his father help him into the heavy clothes and wind the scarf gently around his injured neck, but refused to lean on him on their long, slow way out of the manor. The burner phone Alfred had slipped into the inner pocket of the coat brushed against his ribs with every step.

He was Robin. He had this under control.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks everyone for your patience and your feedback! The next chapter will be up in a week (yes, a week!), and it's probably going to be weekly until the end of the fic.
> 
>  
> 
> NEXT TIME:
> 
> A leisurely morning of cyber-stalking it was. There was the obvious thing to investigate. Dick was a dad now, was he? Jason was going to find out what was up with that.


	23. Opposition Research

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Those last-minute complications always come up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has some violent ideation from a PoV character, and discusses child neglect.

When Jason got back from dealing with the replacement and his little girlfriend (honestly, he’d been surprised that even the replacement’s _girlfriend_ was wrapped up with the capes), Talia was gone. Good. He never felt entirely safe when she was around, even less than he usually did. If he was honest with himself, he didn’t like how she talked about Bruce. Like -

\- like she wanted his soul. That was it. Talia spoke like she wanted to own Bruce right down to the soul.

Bad vibes. Jason didn’t like it. Not that he cared about Bruce. He just didn’t like it.

He still needed her. Hell, he still _owed_ her. He wasn’t paying anywhere near what he should be for the guns and explosives she was selling him, plus there was all the training to consider. He knew she preferred that he be in her debt, but knowing her game didn’t mean he was willing to change their rules yet.

Once he’d cleaned his guns and his knife, changed into sweats, and dumped his clothes in the washing machine, Jason collapsed onto his bed. He couldn’t delay it any longer. He had to sleep. His reaction times were starting to go. Every limb felt like it had a lead weight dragging it down. His back was killing him, no thanks to Dick.

If he was going to mess with Bruce and the clown, he’d need to be on his toes. 

Jason lay down. The blankets were cool around him; the pillow under his head soft, but almost icy at first touch. He’d left the heater off - running it cost money. It was on now, on a timer, and he’d warm up just fine. Maybe he should turn it down and check that the timer was working. Check the locks again too. Or get something to eat. Another cup of coffee…

_Sleep_ , Jason told himself. There was no substitute for it.

He stayed lying down. He closed his eyes. Within minutes he was dreaming of green and insane laughter and pain. It seemed to go on for a very long time. Every time he went to sleep it was like that. And asleep, he couldn’t fight back. He couldn’t even know if there was a real danger outside his window if he went to sleep. It made him helpless. To dangers that were in the past.

Jason woke up to pale winter sunlight slanting through the shutters, alert and aware but ill at ease. He’d got five or six hours, he judged. Enough to be going on with. More than he usually got.

He wondered if the replacement had lived out the night.

He checked his messages while he ate breakfast. Nothing pressing required the Red Hood’s attention. So that left him free to stalk his chosen prey for the next few hours, before putting the finishing touches on his big plan and finally, _finally_ getting started. He was so close now. He didn’t want to blow it by going out and attracting the Bat’s attention at the wrong moment. Especially not while he was still hurting from that one punch.

A leisurely morning of cyber-stalking it was. There was the obvious thing to investigate. Dick was a dad now, was he? Jason was going to find out what was up with that.

Social Services was the place to start. Bludhaven or Gotham. Two girls, with the name Grayson somewhere in their file. He didn’t know when they’d been born, if they’d been given Dick’s surname, nor even whether they were born on the same day. (If they were twins, it wasn’t a _big_ chance they had different birthdates, but it wasn’t impossible.) Once he’d hacked in, it wasn’t hard to run a search. He went six months back, just in case.

The case file that came up was dated not quite two weeks ago.

Jason opened it. Amy and Bridget, huh? A. Grayson and B. Grayson. If Dick had a third kid, Jason would put good money on him finding a name that started with C.

He didn’t recognise the mother’s name. He hadn’t expected to. Just the thought of perfect golden boy Dickie forgetting to wrap his namesake for his one-night stand had him snickering with schadenfreude. Turns out all it took for him to forget all those Bat-lessons about always being prepared was a rush of blood to the…penis.

He stopped snickering when he got to the first lines of the report proper. Dick’s daughters had been born _in Lockhaven_? What the hell?

There was a copy of the baby mama’s criminal record attached. Jason read over it, eyes widening as he did. A cop-killer? Dick had fucked a cop-killer? Seriously? _Dick_? Dick the perfect? Had to be after she’d murdered the cop, too, or the kids were seriously overdue.

Jason found himself strangely disappointed. Dick was supposed to _stay_ the perfect beloved son, so Jason could get the best satisfaction out of smashing his teeth in and kicking him to a bleeding, broken heap in Gotham’s shit. He wasn’t supposed to break down and have one-night stands with sleazy wannabe vigilantes in sleazy wannabe Gotham. That wasn’t right.

There had to be a story behind that. He dug in further, into the _Crime_ section of _Bludhaven Daily_ , hunting an explanation. Someone had done a cover-up, Jason could tell, and it had Bruce’s fingerprints all over it. Dick Grayson didn’t piss off mobsters; Nightwing did that. Yet Dick Grayson was the name in the tiny, too-sparse articles. There was no reason Bruce would bring Dick’s real name into a cover-up, unless. Unless.

Ha, he’d been found out! Golden Boy, rumbled by an enemy! Precious. Priceless.

He kept reading, piecing together what he could after Bruce’s little attempt to hide Dick’s nighttime identity, and by extension his own. Dick had certainly messed up bad, since it looked like this Blockbuster had taken it upon himself to blow up or shoot everything and everyone Dick Grayson-related that he could get his hands on. It had killed a _lot_ of people.

Somewhere along the way in his reading, he found himself getting angry. He almost didn’t recognise the feeling without the Pit-green burning in his thoughts that came with his rage now. It was just anger he felt. Common, garden variety anger.

That sort of thing wasn’t supposed to happen.

At last he got to a lengthier article. _Roland Desmond shot dead in motel_. The case was unsolved at the point of writing, and as Jason checked the now-closed police investigation, unsolved even now. He could see a cover-up there, too, but there was no telling from these files alone just what it was covering up. It hadn’t been Bruce, not his style. Probably a cop.

Not long after that Nightwing had disappeared for a few months. When he’d started preparing in earnest for his revenge, he’d been with it, mentally, enough to realise that there was someone missing from Team Bat. There was the girl Bruce had adopted, Cassandra something, but she was Batgirl instead of Robin, and as far as he could tell she sometimes wandered off from Gotham entirely. Not exactly close family. She probably just needed a legal parent, something to satisfy social services. Jason couldn’t bring himself to think of her as competition. 

The replacement was a different story. The replacement had everything. The replacement _took_ everything. It was Jason’s, and Bruce gave it away.

Green in his thoughts again. That was good, for this. Planning was so much easier. Time for action. Jason geared up, and headed out.

 

—

 

By the time he got home, which wasn’t very long at all, Tim needed to lie down again. He was so tired, and he couldn’t tell what had drained more from him, the confrontation or the healing cut on his neck. Probably the cut.

His father bundled him into bed with lots of blankets and a jug of cool water right next to him. He draped Tim’s coat over the back of his desk chair without discovering the phone. Tim watched him like a hawk to make sure. He might need that phone.

He could tell his father wanted to yell at him.

Dana poked her head into his room, eyes wide. “I’ll come back when you’re feeling better,” she said, very quietly. Honestly, you’d think Tim was on his deathbed. They hadn’t noticed when he’d been shot last week. Suspicious of what might be going on outside his hearing, Tim dragged himself right back out of bed. It was so much effort. But he wasn’t going to have his dad talking about him behind his back.

He took a blanket. It was still cold out.

He had enough energy to be stealthy. Even so, he felt like the thick carpeting was helping him out. When he heard his father’s voice through the dining room door, Tim sank down to sit by the entry and listen, blanket wrapped around him.

“We don’t check on him that late,” Dana said. “You’ve found him awake early in the morning before. It explains the split lip…”

“I don’t know. I just - I don’t know.”

“He’s hurt,” Dana said. “He needs looking after right now, no matter what.”

“White as a sheet,” his father said. Tim heard him get up, then, the clink of glass at the sideboard, then a slosh of liquid. “I’ve never seen anyone - only Janet, after - at the coroner’s.” There was a longer pause, then the _chink!_ of a heavy glass put down a little too hard.

“I don’t even know if I believe him, now that I think about it,” his father went on. “Tim’s always been a good kid, imaginative, but he’s never been much of an athlete…and what it means about _Wayne_ \- god, Dana, I just don’t know. I can’t believe that he’s been sneaking out at night so much. I thought it was just the once! I don’t _want_ to believe it. Maybe a psychiatrist -”

That was his cue, again. Pushing heavily against the doorframe to stand, he said, “You should believe it. It’s true.”

His father and Dana both whipped around to look at him, surprised. Dana was the first to speak, though. “Tim, honey, you should go back to bed.”

“Not yet,” Tim said. Not while he wasn’t sure what they’d do. He didn’t want to go to sleep only to wake up and find his father had called the police on Bruce and Dick. They trusted him. They relied on him to do his part, in the field and in hiding their identities. “I really am Robin. I’m not delusional. You don’t need to send me to a psychiatrist.”

He could probably use the help, but he wasn’t going to go to a psychiatrist or psychologist his father picked out for him. He was angry, he realised. That was what the cold, clear feeling in his chest was. Anger at himself for being careless and for getting hurt. Anger at his father for not believing him, for treating him like a _child_. _Now_ he treated Tim like he needed someone to look after him.

Now he might stop Tim from seeing people he cared about.

“Okay,” his father said. “Okay, you’re Robin. Fine.”

“I need to know you won’t call the cops on Bruce and Dick.”

Jack Drake narrowed his eyes. “You made it clear what you’d do if I did that.”

“I want you to _promise_.”

“You don’t trust me.”

No, he didn’t. He didn’t really _know_ his father. His father didn’t know him. Tim held his shoulders steady and said, “It’s important. It’s important to _Gotham_.”

“It’s _dangerous_!” his father shouted. “You got your _throat cut_!”

He forced himself not to say what Robin would say, if this was a rogue or a thug on the street and not Tim’s father: _I know, I was there_. His father didn’t want him to dismiss the danger. “Yes, I know,” he said. “I’ve been sneaking out a long time. You know that I’ve got hurt _less_ since Bruce started training me? I used to get home with bruises and cuts everywhere. I hid them from the nannies you hired, I hid them from my teachers. It wasn’t hard to hide them from you and mom.”

His father flinched. Dana looked away.

“I didn’t get hurt falling on a fire escape,” Tim continued. “I got hurt fighting a drug dealer. I make a difference, dad. I accepted the risk.”

“What do you want me to say, Tim?” his father snapped. “Do you want me to just - just give my blessing to you running around getting shot at, and stabbed? Because I won’t. I would have stopped this a long time ago, if I had known -“

“But you didn’t,” Tim fired back. “You never had a clue. So you didn’t stop it, and now I’m involved.”

They stared each other down. Tim could only hope that his pallor and unsteadiness on his feet weren’t undermining him _too_ badly. Regardless of what it might look like, he had no intention of backing down. He didn’t want to back down. Robin was the best thing he was doing with his life. But…

“It stops now,” Jack Drake said, a little tremble in his voice. Nervousness or anger, Tim couldn’t tell. Maybe both. “This is the deal: you stop, and I won’t turn Wayne in.”

Before Robin, he’d been alone. Still sneaking out at night, but by himself, coming back to nothing. He didn’t want to go back to that, but he couldn’t stand it if Bruce or Dick ended up in jail because of him. Gotham needed Batman, Batman needed Robin - but Robin was replaceable. They could go on without him. If it came down to it, better Tim quit than either Bruce or Dick go to jail.

Tim suspected it was an empty threat, but he couldn’t be certain. His own threat to proclaim his lack of regret hadn’t been. It was, however, the promise he’d been after. He was tired, and sore, and even though he was still angry, he wanted to believe his father could be trusted. He wanted - 

It had been a long time since he’d bothered wanting things from his father.

“All right,” Tim said. “If you don’t turn Bruce in, I’ll stop being Robin.”

There was nothing else to say. He managed to stay on his feet as he walked out of the room, while behind him Dana whispered, “Jack, maybe -“

Should have been better. Should have been faster, stronger, shouldn’t have got his throat cut. Bruce didn’t need a Robin who wasn’t good enough. But Tim could do this much - stay out of it and protect Batman’s identity.

 

—

 

When Jason got back to his building after checking in with his employees (making sure he was’t trailed by any ambitious Bats, who would be _pissed_ if the replacement hadn’t survived, and probably even if he had), Talia was waiting in the coffee shop on the ground floor. “I thought you’d left town,” he said.

“I did not want to leave before seeing my beloved,” Talia replied, and slid her phone across the table towards him. “Your other apartment has been visited. Your replacement has not been sighted, and indeed, my beloved has replaced your replacement, to all appearances.”

There were photos on the screen, screencaps from video streamed off his own computers. The Bat, in broad daylight, checking out Jason’s observation post. The purple chick from the night before was with him. She didn’t look too upset, but it was hard to tell when she had that mask over most of her face.

No telling whether the replacement had died from just looking at Bruce. After _Jason_ had died, Bruce had picked himself back up and gone back out on patrol with a new Robin.

He’d get his explanation for that. He’d promised himself the day he’d heard there was a new Robin in town.

He was so close. _So close_.

“Doesn’t matter,” Jason said. “I was done there anyway.” He could write off a few guns and a notebook.

He’d spent longer than he liked to admit stalking Bruce and the replacement, months working on his plan, and now it was all about to pay off. There was just one thing bothering him. 

The babies. 

What was he going to do about Dick’s babies? If he killed Dick, and he was still _reasonably_ sure he wanted to (just after he made Bruce kill the Joker), what was he going to do with them? He’d promised to leave Bruce alive, it was _better_ if he left Bruce alive to mourn his dear dead Dickie and wallow in how useless he was controlling crime in Gotham. He couldn’t leave _babies_ to Bruce. Or to foster care, which might possibly be worse than Bruce.

If he was going to kill Dick, it was his responsibility to find someone to look after the babies. No choice. No passing the buck. He had to find someone. Someone not Alfred, who deserved to retire in peace.

It wasn’t going to be Talia, either. He shuddered to think of her as a parent. Besides, she didn’t like Dick much; he couldn’t imagine that she’d treat his kids well.

“What worries you so, Jason?” Talia asked, snapping him out of his thoughts. “You have prepared for this for almost a year. Soon it will be over, and you will be free to live your life as you choose. Rule Gotham, if you like.”

He didn’t believe that for a second. That would mean permanently displacing her _beloved_. Jason knew she and her father wanted to tear Bruce down and build him back up the way they wanted him. Jason was only on board for that first part.

Talia was using him, he knew. He could live with that. She’d never pretended otherwise.

“Nothing,” he said. He was going to have to change the plan after all. He wasn’t a monster. He wasn’t going to leave those girls parentless, or dump them on Alfred. It had all been so much _easier_ when he’d thought Bruce had a kid from one of his random girlfriends. Then the kid could just go straight back to its mother. Problem solved.

Why didn’t he know anyone who could be trusted with children?! He used to, he was sure of it.

He wanted to see them, at least. 

Fuck what Dick hadn’t exactly said. Dick had said they were brothers, a few times back before Jason died. Even if he’d been the sort of jackass older brother who was never around when needed and got jealous and pissy over the slightest little thing. Jason was going to take him at his word. See how he liked it. Fuck Dick, he was going to go see his nieces.

That meant breaking into Wayne Manor. He’d done it before, he could do it again. Unless Dick was planning to run back to Bludhaven, in which case Jason would just have to follow him. Either way, he’d need to keep the Bat out of the picture. After what Jason had done to his replacement, he was sure the Bat was looking for him, pissed as hell.

Good thing he’d planned a nice big distraction to keep Bruce interested.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you everyone for your support! Next chapter will be up next week.
> 
>  
> 
> NEXT TIME:
> 
> The rest of the lecture died in Bruce’s throat. What Leslie and Barbara had said - that Dick might have been - might have been - what was he doing? He should be trying to comfort Dick. Trying to work out what had happened to him that night, if it had been even worse than a bad decision, if more…specialised…help was required.
> 
> But Tim. But Jason. Who needed him more? Who needed him most?


	24. Shots Fired

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A bad start to a long night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains some damaging attitudes to mental illness and psychiatric treatment. Aside from the stuff in the tags, of course.

When Batman returned to the Cave, Spoiler having departed for inner Gotham with a cheerful wave and more well-wishes for Robin, Tim was nowhere to be seen. Upstairs, Bruce assumed, getting changed. It was warmer there, and Dick and Alfred were probably planning to spend most of their day up there too. It would be more comfortable.

But when he got upstairs himself, he heard Alfred and Dick talking in low, anxious voices. “Have you heard from him yet?” Dick asked.

“Not yet, Master Richard,” Alfred said. “Hopefully, Master Timothy is asleep and recovering.”

“But what if he isn’t?”

“Then, in the worst case scenario, I suppose we will find out when the police stop by,” Alfred said.

That got Bruce’s attention. “What’s going on?” he asked, walking through the door.

Even Alfred startled slightly. Whatever had happened, it was almost unbelievably bad. _After Jason?_ Bruce asked himself. _Jason both times? After what might have happened to Dick?_

“Tim’s dad showed up,” Dick said. His shirt was splattered with water, while both baby girls looked freshly washed; bathtime had occurred. Above the damp shirt, his face was worried. “Tim…Tim…”

Alfred rescued him. “Master Timothy felt it best to be honest with his father.”

“ _What?_ ”

“Exactly as I said, sir. Master Timothy felt it best to be honest with his father as to how he acquired his current injury. In full. Mister Drake took him home afterwards. Timothy seemed confident in his ability to defuse the situation, and I have given him a phone with which to contact us should his father cut off other means.”

“What? How did he even get in here?”

“That was my fault,” Dick said. “I didn’t reinstate the normal security protocols after the party. I didn’t even notice when all the caterers were gone.”

It was too much. Dick and his children, Jason, Dick again, and now Tim. His mind felt like it was overflowing. Things were getting out of control. “Irresponsible,” Bruce said quietly, too angry even to raise his voice. “You should know better by now. How many times have I told you to go through even the simplest routines? For exactly this reason?”

“Enough,” Dick said, equally quiet.

“Clearly not. You’re a father now yourself. You need to use your head, Dick. You have to think.” He looked at the tiny girl in Dick’s arms. Pink clothing. Bridget. Yet all he could see when he looked at her was Dick asleep in the cave’s medical bed, battered and broken, Jason’s still body in his arms, Cass huddled quietly in a corner too afraid to try and communicate, Tim pale and too close to bleeding out. “It’s your job to protect them and your lack of attention to detail…what happens if we go to jail, Dick? Who’s going to look after them then? You have to be -“

“Master Bruce!”

Alfred’s stern voice cut into what was rapidly becoming a full-blown rant. Bruce blinked, refocused, saw more than Bridget’s plump pink face and finally took in Dick’s pallor and wide eyes. He looked - like the day Bruce had said, _no more Robin._

That day, the pallor and shock had given way to anger. Today, Dick just stared up at him as though Bruce had punched him.

So many children he’d failed.

The rest of the lecture died in Bruce’s throat. What Leslie and Barbara had said - that Dick might have been - might have been - what was he _doing_? He should be trying to comfort Dick. Trying to work out what had happened to him that night, if it had been even worse than a bad decision, if more… _specialised_ …help was required.

But Tim. But Jason. Who needed him more? Who needed him most?

“Master Timothy said he was capable of handling the situation,” Alfred said, stepping in. Physically. Protectively. He put himself between Bruce and Dick. “We have all trusted in Master Timothy’s ability to handle a variety of challenging tasks, including how best to manage his father.”

“This is different,” Bruce said. “If Drake knows -“

“Master Timothy will _still_ be most able to defuse the situation. Better than you or I or Master Richard or Miss Cassandra. We both know perfectly well that Master Timothy suffered a rather visible injury last night. The chances were good that Mr Drake would have required a more comprehensive explanation in any event.”

Behind Alfred, Dick was still staying quiet, though his eyes were now fixed firmly on the baby in his arms. It was unnerving. Bruce wished he’d speak. Defend himself. Anything but beaten-down silence. “Fine,” he said, then turned on his heel.

It seemed like the most use he’d been today was letting Cass sleep. But if he couldn’t help Tim, and he didn’t know how to help Dick, he’d find some way to help Jason. He had to examine the material from Jason’s safe house. No doubt Jason knew, or would soon know, that he and Spoiler had found it.

Tim would call if he needed help. If Jack Drake was set on turning them all in, there was very little Bruce could do to stop it, now. 

And Dick…Dick hadn’t said anything about Tarantula for nine months. 

Circumstances had obviously changed. The more Bruce thought about it, turning it over in his mind, the more Leslie’s and Barbara’s concerns made sense. It was Tarantula that brought this on. The _babies_. It wasn’t just Dick’s delayed guilt over Blockbuster’s death finally kicking in. His failure to protect Blockbuster…from Tarantula. She was the common factor in all of this. The timeline -

He set aside the copied information from Jason’s computers. Just for a few minutes. Jason would get his full attention again soon. 

Instead, he pulled up the medical records from Lockhaven again. He’d looked over the medical notes and thought briefly about the timeline the night Alfred had brought Dick back home, but that had been _minutes_ after he’d found out. He made himself look again, thinking through the implications properly. As he should have the first time, rather than let his anger, fear, and shock get the better of him.

Amy and Bridget had been born slightly late according to the Lockhaven doctors, nothing remarkably so. But that did put the date of their conception…almost certainly _after_ Tarantula had attacked Barbara. More likely within a day or two, either way, of Blockbuster’s murder.

Bruce could believe Dick had made very bad decisions that week, given the stress he’d been under. It wasn’t unheard of. But decide to sleep with a criminal he’d been pursuing? Dick had made bad calls before, but Bruce was hard pressed to think of a decision he’d made that had been _that_ bad. Decide to sleep with someone who’d attacked Barbara? Dick wasn’t that callous.

Now that he thought about it.

His gaze kept coming back to one of the dates on Tarantula’s file. The night of Blockbuster’s murder. The one night he knew Nightwing and Tarantula had been in the same place. The one night he knew Dick would have been vulnerable. Easy prey.

He was just about to go back to work on Jason’s case when he heard footsteps behind him, and a sharp indrawn breath.

 

—

 

Dick couldn’t believe it. He thought Bruce had gone downstairs to try and work out what Jason was doing, if they could stop him from doing anything like hurting Cass. He’d followed to apologise again about Tim. And instead, he found _that_. “Why are you looking at that?” he asked Bruce.

Bruce turned his chair around to look at Dick, but all Dick could see was Catalina’s mugshot on the big screen of Bruce’s main computer. He hadn’t seen her since he left her to be arrested by the BPD. Not in person, not even in a photograph.

She looked so _angry_. He felt like her dark eyes would leave scorched holes in the screen. _They’re pixels, Grayson. Only pixels._ It was stupid to react that strongly.

“Dick?” His adoptive father leaned forward, concerned, and before Dick could more than merely register the movement, he minimised the window and left Dick staring at a safehouse inventory. “Are you all right?”

Dick tried to focus again. “Why are you looking at that?” he repeated. He’d tried to get some anger in his voice, but he failed. Even to his own ears he sounded choked and broken. Not outraged.

“I was worried,” Bruce said.

He choked out a laugh. “Was it Leslie or Babs who told?”

“Both.”

“Both.” Another little laugh, but this one sounded embarrassingly like a sob. “Right. Both. Of course.” He couldn’t bring himself to look at Bruce. Bad enough Babs thought what she thought, bad enough about Leslie, but Bruce - “Whatever they told you, you don’t have to worry,” he said.

“Don’t I?” Bruce asked, flat and impersonal. “You’re benched.”

“What?”

“You’re benched. No Nightwing.”

“ _What?_ ” He couldn’t believe it. “You need my help,” he argued. “With Jason out there, and Tim injured, you can’t possibly believe I’ll just stay in the cave with the computers.”

“I can and you will,” Bruce said. “You’ve had two panic attacks in the past week, that I know of. You’re clearly not well enough to be patrolling, and especially not -”

“With Jason? I can handle Jason, Bruce.”

“When he might be trying to kill you? When you’re already - emotional? I’m not taking that chance. No. You’re staying right here until you get your head in order.”

“My _head in order_? I’m not crazy!”

“You are having panic attacks!” Bruce shouted. “Two in a week! One when Tim asked you the wrong question, one when Cass pinned you down in a friendly spar. I can’t let you go out when that’s what’s happening. Psychiatric injuries are injuries, all the same.”

“ _Bruce_ -“

“No.”

Dick knew that tone. Bruce had no intention of being budged. He cast around for something, and hit on one possibility. “At least take Cass with you,” he said. Batgirl didn’t often patrol with Batman, but who cared about how unusual it was under these circumstances?

“Fine. But Cass has her own patrol route, and you are still not going back out there until you’ve had some psychological treatment.”

In the past Dick had argued with him, and often as not if he argued with Bruce he ended up outright ignoring him. This time he barely had the energy. He felt wrung out, stretched thin. Exhausted. It was all he could do to turn around and walk away. But at the same time…he couldn’t let Bruce go out there alone. If Dick was exhausted, how bad must Bruce feel? He wasn’t immune to mistakes. Even he slipped up after too little sleep and too much stress.

Sneaking out again it would be. It wasn’t like he hadn’t done it before. He’d wait until Bruce had gone to find Jason and follow.

Wait, no, he’d have to tell Alfred. He couldn’t just sneak out solo anymore. The family he had to think of wasn’t all able to go out and fight crime in the city, or failing that, look after itself for a night. Someone had to look after the girls, and that would have to be Alfred. Alfred would probably agree with him. Bruce had to be looked after too right now.

Unless Babs and Leslie had talked to him. Psychological treatment. Bruce had never tried to send him in for counselling before, not against his will. What had they _said_ to him?

They knew. Or at least suspected. Why couldn’t they leave it be? He hadn’t had any problems until they started asking. He just wanted to put it behind him. Even if he’d failed that night, too cowardly to stop Tarantula from shooting, too weak to stop her from - the rest of it - he was managing. Just fine.

God, why had he ever thought he could hide it? Stupid. Pointless. But what did you say, anyway? How did you bring it up? _Hey, Bruce, kind of awkward, thought you should know, I was_ -

\- No. 

He couldn’t even think it.

Much easier just to call it a bad decision made in a moment of weakness and move on. At least that way it was _his_ decision.

There were the girls to think of too. Sometime in the years to come he’d have to tell them about their mother. He couldn’t and wouldn’t tell them she was a good person, but what would they think - about him, about _themselves_ \- if they ever learned why they were here…

He didn’t ever want them to feel dirty inside because of him and their mother. He didn’t want them to feel like they’d ruined his life. Not for a second. And already he knew that he was going to fail, just like he’d failed on that rooftop. It was inevitable, just like Bruce finding everything out was inevitable. It seemed like Babs and Leslie already had.

If Leslie hadn’t told Alfred everything, he’d consider himself lucky.

Dick made it upstairs to where Alfred was meticulously preparing for dinner. “Can you look after the girls tonight?” he asked.

“Certainly I am able to do that,” Alfred said. Dick recognised the tone and the arched eyebrow from other requests such as _hey Alfred, could you not tell Bruce who broke the window in the green study?_ It came with the unspoken _but why_ should _I do that?_  

“Bruce is planning to go out and I don’t think he’s planning to keep Cass with him,” he said.

“Oh dear,” Alfred said. “That would be most imprudent of him. I take it you plan to follow?”

“Yeah.”

“Well. In that case. Of course I shall look after the young misses. I trust this shall not happen every night Master Bruce plans to go out inadvisably?”

“No.” Neither of them would ever get any rest if they tried to stop Bruce every time he tried to do something stupid. “Just tonight. If he’s anything like he was after Jason died…”

Brutal. Reckless. Without Tim, and with Jason back from the dead - patrol could go very badly.

“I understand and agree, Master Richard,” Alfred said. “Having said that, I am concerned for your health as well.”

“You and everyone else, Alfred,” Dick snapped. “I’m fine. Never healthier. I don’t even have any niggles at the moment.”

“Your mental health, dear boy, as you know quite well. None of us want to see a repeat of what happened a few days ago. I trust you will know when to call it a night, for your own sake, at least. We all cared - _care_ \- for Master Jason, and this will be as difficult for you as it is for him.”

Dick laughed, short and bitter. “No it won’t be. He wasn’t functioning without Jason. I managed. It’ll be the same again. And what about you? This can’t be easy for you either.”

“Indeed it is not,” Alfred said, seemingly unruffled. “It is most distressing to hear he is responsible for all these awful things, including the attack on Master Timothy. I hope that Master Bruce, and yourself, will be able to convince him to abandon his present path.”

“We’ll do our best,” Dick promised.

“And I will endeavour to support you as you do.”

It seemed to Dick, though, that the butler was looking older and more tired all the time. He hoped the night wouldn't make things worse.

 

—

 

Nearly midnight, and Jason was checking everything for the fourth time. Everything had to be perfect. It wasn’t a task he’d trust to anyone else. With explosives in the mix, he wanted to be sure. He couldn’t have his plan killing innocent people. 

Not even innocent people who worked at Arkham. Incompetents and petty prison-guard tyrants, mostly, but the Red Hood didn’t kill for that.

This change to the plan was giving him a headache. So much extra work for him. He’d be spending most of the night going back and forth across Gotham. It was the only way, though. He was _going_ to see those kids, and nothing short of an Arkham breakout would pry Bruce’s attention away from home long enough for Jason to seize his opportunity and get into Wayne Manor.

Luckily, Jason could provide exactly that.

He needed multiple, controlled breaches into Arkham’s walls. No more power than necessary, though additional smoke was a good thing. He wanted mass confusion, not random destruction, and every ounce of Batman’s attention devoted to putting Arkham’s lunatics back behind bars. Batgirl’s attention too. Nightwing’s. He wanted all eyes on Arkham for the moment. Until he’d done what he planned to do.

Charges laid at the outer walls of the compound. More at the building itself. He needed to blast both sets of walls open for this breakout, and create enough confusion to stop them from being apprehended immediately.

He brought up thermal imaging on the his screen, back in his little nest on the road, a safe distance away. No staff nearby. He didn’t much care if any prisoners got hurt.

This was it. The moment Jason had worked for for so long. It began here. Batman’s downfall started here.

He took a deep breath, and pressed the button.

There was a pause, and then a boom, and then rubble flew everywhere. Light seemed to catch solid in the smoke, adding to the chaos. Jason kept his eyes on the thermal imaging. More reliable, under these circumstances. It wasn’t long before the inmates started to head for the largest breach.

But thermal imaging meant he couldn’t tell which inmate was which. He saw a short, round shape that was probably the Penguin, moving with a pack of larger flunkies. Aside from that, amongst the rogues, only Freeze had a body shape (suit, technically) that stood out in the crowd, and Jason would see the cold register on the thermal imaging before anything else. Otherwise, they blended into each other as they raced out of Arkham, overwhelming the guards. That woman could be Poison Ivy, or she could be nobody. That man, tall and sturdy, he could be Two-Face, or he could be nobody. _That_ man, a bit taller than average but skinny as a rake, he could be nobody -

\- or it could be _him_.

Jason hadn’t laid eyes on _him_ since that day. He didn’t intend to until he was ready to spring his final trap, the one that would end with Batman finally killing that monster like he should have years ago. Before Jason even came on the scene. He should never have survived to beat Jason to death. But he had, no thanks to Bruce, and now Jason was going to fix that. He was going to fix _both_ those issues. Even now his people would be moving into position.

First he had to work out what to do with Dick’s daughters, though. Time was wasting. Jason grabbed his guns and made sure his bike was prepped - cutting across the Gotham outskirts would be quickest.

Behind him in the smoke, he heard rubble shifting and familiar, maniacal laughter. Jason’s heart beat faster and green rushed across his vision as he kicked his bike into gear. The engine would drown out the laughter. The sooner the better.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for your comments, kudos, and bookmarks! Next chapter will be up next week - hopefully with the finalised number of chapters.
> 
>  
> 
> NEXT TIME:
> 
> “He has a grudge against me. A personal matter.” Failing to save him. Replacing him as Robin. Missing the fact he’d come back to life, even though there had to be an empty coffin in the family cemetery now. Not ensuring the Joker couldn’t hurt anyone else ever again. Jason had a lot to be angry at him for. 
> 
> “As long as you bring him in,” Gordon said firmly. “Every death from this is on his head, as far as I’m concerned.”


	25. The Black Sheep

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Putting a plan into action.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mind the tags and the notes on chapter one.

Batman had barely left the house before the reports started coming in. Explosions at Arkham. Mass breakout. Confusion and injuries but no confirmed deaths - yet. He tried to contact Oracle, but she wasn’t online yet. She would be soon. If he knew Barbara, she’d have alarms and alerts for this sort of situation.

In the meantime he listened to the police radio. There had been several explosions, tearing holes in several places along the outer wall and in the building itself. The inmates had, naturally, started leaving. As fast as they could.

He ran through the list of rogues currently imprisoned in Arkham. Two-Face. The Penguin. Scarecrow. Poison Ivy. Mr Freeze. Batman and Robin had worked hard before Christmas to put as many as they could away before they could work out any holiday-themed crimes.

And the Joker. The Joker was in Arkham. Or he was supposed to be, anyway.

This was Jason’s work. The bombs he had been importing into Gotham. This was what they were for. 

“Calling Batgirl,” he said.

Within a minute, Batgirl responded. “Here,” she said, voice quiet even over comms. “I was visiting Spoiler.”

“Spoiler? She’s not to come out tonight.” She had flagged as their investigation wore on. She was brave and determined and handled the pain admirably, but she had not been taught how best to fight through it. It would be a poor repayment if he allowed her to get herself killed, after what she had done for Tim. He didn't have any authority over her, but it wouldn't stop him trying.

Batgirl said simply, “She is grounded. Her mother says.”

That was a small relief. One more person he didn’t have to worry about tonight. “There’s a mass Arkham breakout in progress,” he told Batgirl. “I need your assistance.”

“What should I do?” she asked.

“Find the escapees. Bring them in if you can, before they get established again.” That usually only took about a day, as various underlings heard that their boss really was back. “Except the Joker. Leave the Joker alone.”

“I understand.”

The current Batgirl was soothing to work with in many ways. She was much less…chatty…than either of his first two Robins. Even his third Robin was usually more vocal, asking questions and suggesting plans. In other ways he worried more when he worked with her; after so long working with boys from whom silence was a signal they’d gone off on their own, sometimes all that quiet could be alarming, and he found himself scanning the surroundings frantically for someone who had been there the whole time.

He had promised Dick he’d keep her with him, but needs must. This was an Arkham breakout. No doubt Jason wanted their attention.

He didn’t bother with subtlety as he pulled into Arkham. He pulled in with a screech and leapt from the Batmobile, landing neatly in Gordon’s blind spot. (Some things were habit.) The commissioner startled when he turned around. His own exhaustion must have been dulling his perception and reflexes. Normally Gordon was much more controlled. “Batman,” he said. “I’m glad you’re here.”

“What happened?” Batman asked.

“We don’t know yet.” They looked at the bomb squad, scuttling around the rubble and still-settling dust. “Six explosions. Three breaches in the outer wall, three breaches into Arkham itself, detonated during free time for the inmates. One of them was Poison Ivy.”

Batman examined the breach. This one was devoid of greenery. “The eastern wall?” That was the most direct route to the Gotham Botanical Gardens, her favourite place in the city.

“Yes.”

“I’ll send Batgirl to investigate.” In terms of sheer physical destruction, few rogues could compete with Poison Ivy if she put her mind to it. He wished Nightwing and Robin were in a position to help.

Instead, he advanced to where the bomb squad was working, and started running his own scans. He recognised League of Shadows recipe smoke bombs. “I know who did this,” he told Gordon. “The Red Hood.”

Gordon growled with frustration. “Again?”

“He has a grudge against me. A personal matter.” Failing to save him. Replacing him as Robin. Missing the fact he’d come back to life, even though there had to be an empty coffin in the family cemetery now. Not ensuring the Joker couldn’t hurt anyone else ever again. Jason had a lot to be angry at him for. 

“As long as you bring him in,” Gordon said firmly. “Every death from this is on his head, as far as I’m concerned.”

Batman knew that too. Jason, more than most, would know the risks inherent to an Arkham breakout. He knew how many people he was putting at risk with this. How many people might die. It wasn’t just guns that made murderers. But that said, Jason had killed people. With guns. Those drug dealers who dealt to children, the rapist - Jason had always hated rapists. It looked like he was relishing his freedom from their vow. A bloody freedom not worth the price.

He did not know if he could bring himself to hand Jason over to the GCPD. Jason was his son. He needed help. It was selfish of him. Weak. But Jason was his _son_.

“I will take appropriate measures,” Batman said. He vanished into the confusion of Arkham’s ruined walls before Gordon could (rightly) call him out on his evasive non-answer.

Appropriate measures. Whatever they might be. And he would hope that they were minimal. He doubted that they would be. Jason had never been one to give projects less than his all. He didn’t want to fight Jason. He didn’t even want to say _no_ to Jason. That was the problem. If Jason asked him to kill the Joker, Bruce didn’t want to say no.

He tried Oracle again, and this time she was online. “Any word on the Joker’s location?” he asked. It was too much to hope that he’d been prevented from escaping, or incapacitated in the process.

“He definitely escaped,” Oracle reported. “No word on where he’s gone. He’s on the outs with Quinn at the moment; she’s been spotted with Poison Ivy, and they’re forting up in the Botanical Gardens. Batgirl won’t be able to handle that alone. I’d say you can leave them be for the night.”

“The Red Hood?”

“No sightings tonight. His people are out on the streets, though. One arrest before Arkham blew.”

“He’s up to something,” Batman said grimly. “Arkham was his work. We can confirm the League of Shadows connection too.”

There was a pause, probably while Oracle entered that information into her databases and brought up additional information. “What do you think he wants?” she asked.

“Something personal,” Batman told her. “Keep me informed about him and the Joker both. If all else fails, Jason will find me.”

 

—

 

A knock on his bedroom door woke Tim up. He was well-trained enough to fight through the lingering exhaustion and dizziness, all the way back to alertness.

The door opened before he could say ‘come in,’ however. He had the feeling that was going to become the new normal. His father stepped through and said, “Your phone was ringing. It’s your friend Stephanie.” He didn’t hand the phone over, though, but stood there with his hand over the mouthpiece to block their voices from Steph. “What sort of friend is she?”

So not only had his father taken his civilian phone, he was planning to take the phone away if he answered wrong. Or give Steph an earful. Luckily, there was something he could say that his father might listen to. “The sort who saved my life last night,” Tim said. “May I speak to her?”

“She -”

“Saved my life. Yes. She kept me from bleeding out even though she got hurt too. Please may I speak to her?”

He felt an odd lightness at being able to say it so bluntly. He didn’t have to hide it anymore. He could say that Steph was more than just pretty, blonde, and cheerful; he didn’t have to go along with the ‘Brucie’ act in this house; he could talk about Cass’s skills and Dick’s mentorship.

He thought that for a second, and then he looked at his father.

Jack Drake didn’t look like he admired Steph’s grit at all. Instead, he looked half-cross, half-abashed, and all terrified. He handed the phone over and left. Tim didn’t hear him walk down the hall. Eavesdropping it was, then, not that he could do anything about it right now. He brought the phone to his ear and got a yelp of, “What the hell was that, Tim?”

“My dad knows everything,” he said. “He walked up to the Manor wanting to know where I’d gone last night.” Because Tim had got caught covering his tracks. If only it hadn’t been snowing.

“Oh my god. Are you all right?”

No. “He wants me to quit,” he said. No mentioning Bat-work on public lines. “I agreed.” They needed to move this conversation to a Bat-approved phone. Good thing Alfred had made sure he had one. Taking care to stay quiet, he got up and fished it out of the coat pocket Alfred had slipped it into. He texted her, _he’s outside listening. Will call Spoiler on this phone later._

He could tell she’d got the message, because she said, “Okaaaay,” then changed the topic and asked, “How’s your throat?”

“The cut itches,” he said. Stung a bit, too. He’d got lucky. First that the cut wasn’t _too_ dangerous as far as these things went, and second that Steph had been there to stop it getting worse. “I’m still wiped out from the blood loss.”

Steph made a sympathetic noise. “Can’t really hope for better when someone’s cut your throat, I guess,” she said. “I was just calling to check on you. And to let you know I’ve been grounded. Mom wasn’t happy I stayed out all night without letting her know.”

‘Grounded’ didn’t mean a whole lot to Spoiler; sooner or later Steph’s mom would have a night shift and Spoiler would be back on the streets. She’d be more upset about her mom being angry with her. But even so… “Guess we won’t be seeing each other for a while.”

“We’ll talk about that later,” Steph said, a rare hard note in her voice. “Get well, Tim.”

He ended the call and waited for his father to come back. It wasn’t long. Once again, a knock, and the door opened before Tim could say yes or no. “Are you finished?” his father asked.

“Yes,” Tim said.

“Can I have your phone back?”

“You’re taking away my phone privileges?” Tim asked, trying not to sound too hostile. Or as though he was comparing his room to a prison.

His father sighed heavily. “Tim, I don’t want you talking to anyone from that crowd. I want you to put it behind you. Live a normal life. Be safe. Do things normal kids your age do. Stephanie seems nice, but…she’s part of it too. And I won’t have you sneaking behind my back anymore. That means you lose phone privileges, yes.”

“Fine,” Tim said, and handed over his civilian phone. There weren’t many people who called him on it anyway. He’d just have to keep his Robin phone well hidden.

When he was sure his father had gone to bed, and Dana with him (he faked sleep when they came to check on him, making sure he wouldn’t sneak out, as if he would with the cut throat and all), he called Steph again. “Sorry about earlier,” he said.

She hadn’t been asleep, of course. Normal Spoiler hours were just starting. “That’s all right. But did you mean it? No more Robin?”

“He made me a deal,” Tim said. “If I quit Robin, he wouldn’t turn in Bruce.”

There was silence on the other end of the line, during which Tim kept his ears peeled. He’d underestimated his father once and he was paying for it. He wasn’t going to do it again and lose his means of communicating with everyone. “Wow,” Steph said at last. “So…no Robin?”

“No. To be honest, I’m not much use to him if I get caught like this and beat up all the time. Batman needs a Robin, but he doesn’t need me.”

“He does need you!” Steph said fiercely, immediately. “You _saved_ him!”

“I’ve never been very good at fighting,” Tim said. “Not compared to him, or Dick…or Jason.” The cut on his throat seemed to sting more for the admission, the ache in his fading bruises return full strength. “If all I’m going to do on the streets is get outclassed -”

“- then you work harder at it,” Steph said. “You’re still a kid. You’ll get better, and stronger. He doesn’t even need you for punching things anyway.”

“Gee, thanks.”

“You know what I mean. You’re a detective. Like him. That’s why he wants you as Robin.”

Tim laughed bitterly. “He didn’t want me. I made him take me.”

“Past tense,” Steph insisted. “He wants you now. He still needs you. You shouldn’t quit.”

“I can’t risk it,” Tim said. “Now less than ever.” With Dick so close to a breakdown, with two children to look after - Tim had never been in a position to protect Dick before, not like this. He’d never needed it like this before. 

“Batman needs Robin.” Steph’s voice was quiet now, but no less determined. “Without you he’s just going to mope all the time. He’ll never get anything done that way.”

She was right, and it was worse than she knew. Moping was the best case scenario.

Tim said, “I have an idea.”

 

—

 

It seemed like Bruce wasn’t gone five minutes before Dick heard about Arkham. He got changed all the faster for it. Going out after him was definitely the right idea. He’d need help tonight if there was an Arkham breakout. Panic attacks be damned. He braced himself against the guilt, kissed his daughters on their foreheads, and left them to Alfred’s care.

He thought about calling Babs - _Oracle_ \- for guidance finding Batman, but decided against it. She’d probably tell Bruce that he’d snuck out as well. What was that little bit of information, after what she’d already told him?

He took his motorcycle. He’d need to be fast if he was going to catch up to Batman and the chaos around Arkham. Outside, the snow had cleared up for a bright, bitingly cold night, the wind coming from off the river. He was just accelerating towards the asylum when he caught movement in the corner of his eye, just visible through a gap in the buildings. Moonlight off shiny red.

It could be a coincidence, or…

He stopped and got off his bike.

It didn’t take long for him to find the other motorcycle. Red. Shiny. Metallic. He scanned it for traces of gunpowder and explosives and found them. He had a bad feeling about this.

Dick headed up to the rooftops. Easier to follow someone that way. He caught up quickly, advancing on Jason from behind and above. And it _was_ Jason. Now that he knew to look, he could recognise how he moved. He took no particular pains to stay stealthy, though, and as he reached the rooftop immediately above Jason, his brother said without turning around, “I can hear you up there. Come down or I’ll shoot you down.”

“No need for that, Jay,” Dick said. “Why are you in the neighbourhood?”

A light tone would be best, he thought. It was still Jason. He didn’t want to scare him off, he wanted to persuade him to come back home and stop whatever it was he thought he was doing. And keep him away from Tim until he or Alfred could explain to him what had happened for Bruce to take on a new Robin.

At the least, it would be good to be able to see Jay’s face for this. Hear his voice without the distorter. To judge his reactions better if nothing else.

Jason did not respond. He shifted his weight slightly, back and to the left, then centred himself again, overcorrecting minutely. Almost like he was…embarrassed? It reminded Dick far more of the awkward teenager who’d bristled at the slightest hint of a slight more than the enemy who’d shot Tim in the stomach armour one night and cut his throat on another.

“Did you come back for a particular reason?” Dick asked. The girls. Jason had come back to see the girls.

“What of it?” Jason asked, after a short silence.

“You could ask. If you left your guns on your bike -”

“What, so you can try to beat me to a pulp and drag me in front of daddy for approval?”

Dick’s temper flared. “As if I’d need you to leave your guns behind for that. There wouldn’t be any _trying_ involved.” He dropped down the side of the building, throwing in a flip because he could and it made him feel better, and closed the distance between them. All the easier to keep his words quiet, just between them. “I just wanted to know if you’d like to come back home and meet my daughters. There’s someone else there who’d like nothing more than to see you again, too.”

“Alf,” Jason muttered, ducking his head just for a second. Then he met Dick’s eyes again, the shiny red lenses of his helmet almost indistinguishable from the surrounding material even at this short distance. “This is a trap,” he said. “It’s got to be.”

“Why? Why is it so hard to believe that Br-Batman and I just want you to stop and come home?”

Jason laughed derisively. “Maybe ‘cause I cut the precious little replacement’s throat?”

“He’s not dead, you know,” Dick told him. Nor was he in the Manor, so there would be even fewer risks in letting Jason in. He wouldn’t hurt Amy or Bridget. Dick still believed that.

“Not for my lack of trying.” If he was sneering at Dick (or Tim), and it sounded like he was, Dick couldn’t tell for sure through the helmet. “Did you cry when his girlfriend brought him in? Finally you got a brother you actually cared about and I stuck a knife in him.”

He was being baited. He knew. He had to stay calm. “I care about you,” Dick protested.

“Of course you do.” That was definitely a sneer. Jason shifted his weight again, more sharply this time. No embarrassment now, only anger. “You’re _perfect_.”

All of a sudden, Jason went perfectly _still_. Then he stepped back, beyond arm’s length. “Well,” he added, “Except for what you did to get those babies. Fucking a murderer, wasn’t it? Did you know that when you did her? Or did you find out later?”

“I didn’t -“

“Oh, you knew,” Jason said. Even through the vocaliser Dick could hear his disgust. “Don’t even try that on me. Chief Redhorn? You worked the case. You put her away for it. You knew.”

Dick said nothing. What could he say? Tarantula had killed Redhorn, yes, but Blockbuster too, and he’d stepped aside and let her, like he’d let her…

“That’s what I thought.”

The night felt very cold. His bones felt like ice. The world had shrunk to just him and Jason in this nondescript gap between buildings, the shadow of a fire escape falling across his face, the breeze on the rooftops and the roads not reaching far enough down here between buildings to blow away the smell of piss and trash and _city_.

No gunpowder. No blood. Dick clung to that.

“Did you do it just to spite dear old dad?” Jason asked, relentless, mocking. “I bet he was pissed when he found out. Was it worth it? Was that what you wanted? You’re pathetic -”

“I didn’t want _any_ of it!”

The words burst out of his mouth without thought. They rang off the walls. In his ears. Jason stopped dead, then brought his hands to his face. Dick heard the scrabbling and fumbling as he tore his helmet off with clumsy fingers.

Beneath the helmet he was wearing a domino mask; it didn’t hide the stretch in his forehead that showed that behind the mask his eyes were wide, nor the paleness of his face. “Wait,” he said, in something that would sound like his normal voice if he wasn’t so audibly shocked, “You didn’t want it? She _raped_ you?”

He could feel his mouth moving, but this time no words were coming out. He felt dizzy. Numb. He could almost smell the gunpowder, now. There must have been some on Jason’s clothes. After what felt like an hour, he said, “I didn’t fight her.”

“But you said no,” Jason said, implacable.

“Don’t touch me,” Dick mumbled. “I could have, should have…”

Jason swore. He looked at Dick, and swore again. Then he slowly stepped towards Dick and put his hands on his shoulders. He was taller than Dick now. “Okay, N,” he said. Gently, very gently, he guided Dick to the bottom of the fire escape and pushed him down to sit beneath it, out of sight. “Are you going to be okay here?”

There were stairs above him. He could get out of this if he felt too trapped. Close to, Jason didn’t smell like gunpowder. More like machine oil. He nodded.

“Okay. Good. You stay here.”

“Wait,” Dick said. “What are you going to do?” If it was hurt someone else - he couldn’t stand it if Jason hurt someone else, especially Bruce. He’d fight this time, though, even though his legs felt like they were made of jello.

“I’m going to find _dad_ ,” Jason spat. There was nothing but fury in the line of his jaw and the sound of his voice. “We’re going to have a chat.”

And before Dick could protest further, Jason was halfway up the fire escape and gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all very much for your comments, kudos, and bookmarks! The next chapter will be up in a week.
> 
>  
> 
> NEXT TIME:
> 
> He took a few deep breaths. He was going to confront Bruce. Batman. He had to be on his game. He was going to make Bruce pay for this. All of this. Not only had he let Jason get murdered and allowed his murderer to wander around Gotham, Tarantula raped Dick and Bruce did nothing.


	26. Victim

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some regrets just won't go away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's a bit more violent ideation from POV characters this chapter, plus some misogynistic slurs from someone who wouldn't normally use them (the misogyny is the most profane thing he can think of).

He shouldn’t have left Dick. What a _stupid_ decision. Jason was on a roll tonight. The other man had turned white as a sheet the instant he’d shouted those words, and he’d seemed as out of it the night he’d run into Jason on patrol.

Jason hadn’t known what to do. All that training and he hadn’t known what to do. He’d seen people suffering panic attacks before. He’d met enough rape victims for a lifetime and more. He sure as fuck wasn’t one of those idiots who thought guys couldn’t, or didn’t, get raped at all. But this was _Dick_. Dick was always put together. Untouchable.

And some…some _bitch_ had raped him. Jason could work out how it had gone down. She’d waited until he was vulnerable. She’d waited until he couldn’t fight her off. Dick must have been utterly tapped out, physically and mentally. That stupid bastard was as stubborn as Bruce. He _always_ fought. Until he collapsed, and all he could do was say was _don’t touch me…_

Then, Jason realised, with horror, she’d got _pregnant_ off it. He stopped to curse a few more times. Those babies? Products of rape.

Jesus, he didn’t know how Dick could stand to look at them. If it was Jason…god, the shit he’d been talking to get a rise out of him…

He took a few deep breaths. He was going to confront Bruce. Batman. He had to be on his game. He was _going_ to make Bruce pay for this. All of this. Not only had he let Jason get murdered and allowed his murderer to wander around Gotham, Tarantula raped Dick and Bruce did _nothing_. He felt sick. Should he go back and apologise? Fuck. He’d taunted Dick about his rapist. About being raped.

Fuck.

Eventually, he decided not to. Not right now. Dick could look after himself. He’d done it before. He could do it again, for a few hours anyway. Jason would come back and check on him later. And the girls. If Dick didn’t want them, it didn’t matter _what_ that rapist thought, what the state thought, Jason would take them as far as he needed to make sure they got a decent mom and/or dad.

He needed to make sure Bruce knew what a colossal prick he was. Maybe he didn’t know what had happened to Dick. Maybe. If he did, though…

This might have been easier if he hadn’t blown up Arkham. There were cops everywhere. Batman was going to be hard to find under the circumstances. 

His communicator buzzed in his ear. “Boss,” the familiar voice of his chief lieutenant said, “We got the clown. Like you said, he didn’t expect us to fight him. He went down easy.” He sounded surprised, almost. Jason knew he’d asked a lot when he’d ordered his men to pick up the Joker for him. He also knew they were trusting him to make sure the clown stayed dead and prevent any sort of retaliation.

“Best news I’ve heard all night,” he growled, sliding back onto his bike. Something, some strong emotion, he couldn’t quite place it, rushed through Jason. Anger and relief? Maybe. Close. Whatever it was precisely, he could feel the green madness of the Pit in the back of his mind. “Leave him at the drop just like I told you. I have business with the Bat.”

“Better you than us, Boss,” his man said.

“Call it a night,” he ordered. “Lay low.”

“Yes, sir.”

He cut off communications. He didn’t need to hear anything else. Now he could just send up the signal and Bruce would come to _him_ , provided he made it to the warehouse first. It wasn’t all that far away now.

Mind boiling, he sped towards his chosen location. Picking it had taken weeks. He wanted to get the warehouse just right. It had given him worse nightmares than he usually had, but he figured it would all be worth it if he could make Bruce suffer those exact same nightmares. How dare he toss Jason (well, Jason’s memory) aside so casually?

It would have been nice if his plan could make the Joker suffer a bit more, but in the end it was more important to kill him. Make _Bruce_ kill him.

Fifteen minutes later, he pulled up in front of the right building. It wasn’t all that far from where he’d first encountered the little replacement Robin in person. Dick had said he’d survived. No doubt thanks to his purple-clad girlfriend and the Bat, dropping everything and swooping in to save him.

That was one Robin. Bruce hadn’t done that for Jason. He hadn’t even done that for _Dick_. 

Inside, the Joker was chained to a sturdy metal chair, unconscious. Jason’s breath caught in his throat at the sight, and it was all he could do not to take out his gun and shoot him dead. Right away. Or, the green thoughts suggested, to use the crowbar he’d left on the floor. _Which hurts more, forehand or backhand?_

No. No, he had to save that for when Batman showed up.

Jason turned off his voice distorter and hacked into the communications channel Batman usually used to communicate with his Robins. “Hi,” he said.

Immediately, a familiar voice growled, “Jason.”

“It’s been a while,” Jason said. “Long time no see.”

“Nightwing told me what you wanted.”

He forced himself to chuckle. “You _are_ a warm and caring individual, aren’t you? Straight to business. In this case, murder.”

If he hadn’t been listening for it, if he hadn’t known Bruce, he would have missed the tiny inhalation. It was _working_. Jason was _affecting_ him. Good. This was just the start of it. “I won’t kill him,” Bruce said. “Not even for you.”

Jason looked over to the chained, unconscious man in the chair. Still no stirring. “Why don’t we discuss this when you get here?” he asked. He wanted this to be face-to-face. Cowl-to-cowl, at least.

“Where are you?”

This time the laugh was easier. “You think I’ll just _tell_ you that? Let you send in the cops? No. I’ve got a Bat-signal of my own. It’s a nice red colour. You can follow it. I’ll be here for an hour. After that all you’re going to find here is a dead clown.” His voice dropped in pitch as he said, “I’m almost hoping you’ll be late.”

He ended the call before Batman could respond and imagined him looking at the sky. Trying to find where the guy who’d cut his precious Robin’s throat was. Tempted as he was to not light the way, to beat the Joker to death right now, he climbed to the roof. From here he could see the lights from Arkham, where the police were scurrying around trying to work out what total bastard had blown up the walls.

He lit his signal, like he promised, and settled in to wait.

 

—

 

It was quiet on the streets. Cass was surprised. Bruce said that nights with Arkham breakouts were either very busy or very quiet. This time the civilians were staying inside. That was good. It made things easier and safer.

Oracle told her where she could find a group of prisoners who had broken out, and Cass followed. The men were very startled when she dropped on them. Alfred had taught her a word for enjoying it when they yelled in surprise - _gratifying._ She liked that word. More, because she wasn’t killing the people she snuck up on, or even hurting them that badly.

What was not gratifying, Cass thought as she zip-tied the last of the four men she’d defeated, was the sound in Oracle’s voice. Even with the machine Oracle sounded upset. Not angry like she had been.

 

She started heading towards the clock tower Oracle lived in now. If she had to stop and go round up some more people who had escaped, she would. She still wanted to at least check in on Oracle in person, though, like she’d checked in on Steph. It wouldn't take long.

Aside from the people who’d escaped from Arkham, it was so _quiet_. Everyone knew not to be on the street. She took her chance, since it might be busier later. Cass climbed her way up to the window where Barbara would be without any regrets, and knocked on the entrance.

“Come in,” Barbara called.

Cass had been right. She sounded a lot more upset in person. When she caught sight of Barbara, she breathed in hard. Barbara was _very_ sad. Her shoulders were too tight, her head kept trying to bow, and behind her glasses her eyes were red-rimmed.

Barbara turned to her before she could say anything. Her mouth stayed in a flat line, but Cass saw how she blinked. She had been crying. Cass had never seen Barbara cry before. “What is it, Batgirl?”

Not _Cass_. It felt like all she could do was look at Barbara. “You’re hurt,” she said at last. “I heard it.”

“It’s nothing,” Barbara said. “You’re needed on the street.”

“Maybe,” Cass said. That was the sort of thing Bruce said when he was upset and didn’t want people to see. “I thought I might be needed here. Is there something I can do?”

Barbara blinked again. Her head tilted slightly. Cass thought she might be debating whether to say something or not. She waited. She was good at waiting. She’d wait as long as she needed to. Unless she really was needed on the street right away. If she was, she’d just have to come back later. Cass made sure her posture showed all this.

“No,” Barbara said. “Nothing.”

“Did Bruce or Dick or your father say something?” That was all she could imagine affecting Barbara so badly during a mission. Except the Joker, maybe. Barbara hated the Joker.

“No,” Barbara said. “I did.”

Cass frowned. “You?”

“Me.” She took off her glasses, rubbed her eyes, and replaced them. The corners of her mouth pulled down a bit further. “I appreciate you’re trying to help, but this is a mistake I made myself, and it’s on me to fix it. There’s nothing you can do. Or should do.”

She looked so miserable. Cass had no idea what she could have said to make her this unhappy. It must have hurt the other person very much. Sometimes she felt like Barbara looked, when she thought about the people she had killed before she came here. It must have been bad. “I’m sorry for asking,” Cass said.

“No. No, it’s all right. It’s not you.” She shook her head as though she was shaking thoughts out. “Was there anything else you needed?”

“No,” Cass said. “I was just worried.”

“I can handle it,” Barbara said, voice hard. “We need to get this Arkham breakout settled first.”

Cass nodded. Barbara didn’t want to talk. She knew how that was, too. Instead, she left to do what Barbara had said they needed to do. She called again when she reached the ground. “Where should I go next?”

“There’s a call for assistance three blocks from here,” Oracle’s machine voice said. “Armed robbery in progress.”

“Going there now,” Cass said.

 

—

 

The flare was over a group of warehouses. Jason had died in a warehouse. Batman had only ever seen the rubble of the one his son had died in, but he had no doubts that inside it would be as similar as Jason could manage.

He was also expecting the Joker. Jason wouldn’t summon him unless he had the Joker under control.

His mind spun away. What would Jason say to make him kill the Joker? What would he do? And what could Batman say to make him stop?

The streets around the warehouse were deserted. A good sign, in some respects. If Jason had been directing his…employees…to keep the streets clear, that could only be a good thing. In other ways it was eerie. His _son_ had _died_ in a warehouse. He understood, to some extent, why Jason would choose to reenact his death like this, but Bruce didn’t want to see it again. Anything like it. Least of all involving Jason.

For Jason, though, he could face it. As long as he could persuade him to turn away from this madness.

He took street entrance into the warehouse, the same door as the office managers used. It took him through a small, musty office, with grimy windows that looked on to the warehouse floor. In the middle of that floor, Batman could see a shape. A man on a chair, figure distorted by the chains binding him. Jason had taken no chances with his murderer. Batman approved.

The details only became clearer as Batman left the office and moved closer to the Joker’s unmoving figure. The Joker was too still, but Batman could see the the faint mist of his breath in this chilly warehouse. Not only was he chained, but handcuffed - and to Batman’s surprise, there was not a bruise on him. Jason, or whoever had apprehended the Joker for Jason, had been careful, clean, and stuck to drugging him.

There was a crowbar on the floor, well out of the Joker’s reach.

From the rafters, Jason’s voice drifted down, modified by his cowl. “Hey, old man. I guess you know what I want here.”

He dropped down to the floor, lightly as Batman had once trained him to move, and faced him from the other side of the Joker.

Bruce drank in all the details he could. The hood itself hid Jason’s face, not a single inch of skin showing anywhere, but from the way his shoulders kept falling ever so slightly back into a slump Bruce could see he was fighting exhaustion, and from the way his torso moved he could tell Jason was still hurting from his brief fight with Dick. He itched to order Jason home and onto bed rest.

But that was the father in him thinking. Batman had a duty to Gotham here as well.

“I won’t kill him,” Batman said steadily.

It was tempting. So tempting. He itched to pick that crowbar up. He didn’t have to beat the Joker the way he had beaten Jason. Just one blow from the crowbar could be, would be, enough to kill. And maybe, if he did, Jason would come back to the Manor with him long enough to explain about Tim…

No.

“He killed me,” Jason said. “He beat me with a crowbar. He asked me which hurt more, forehand or backhand. I heard a few bones break. I knew I was bleeding internally.” He had been. Bruce had read the autopsy report. Reread it. More than he should have. The beating alone would probably have been survivable…if Jason had received prompt medical attention. Jason’s tone was clipped, unusually clinical, as he continued, “It hurt more than anything I’ve ever felt before.”

They looked at the man chained between them. So easy. One swing and it would be over.

“No,” Batman said. “I can’t.”

“You can’t avenge me?” There was anger in Jason’s voice now, contempt running hot. “He murdered me! What will it take to make you finally realise that sometimes you have to just _end_ the monsters?”

“Not that much,” Bruce said. The day he’d started as Batman, he knew there’d be people out there he would be sorely tempted to kill. None of them had tested that desire as much as the Joker. “Jason, I- “

“You’re what? _Sorry_?” He snorted. “So sorry that you found that replacement in months. I wasn’t even cold in my grave before you gave him that outfit.”

Jason stayed perfectly still. He’d learned, too. As Robin he had been almost as inclined to movement as Dick. He looked like he might burst from the effort. Whether he was restraining himself from picking up the crowbar and killing the Joker, or from attacking Batman, he couldn’t tell. “Robin - Robin made his own choices. I’ve tried to protect him better than I did you.”

A snort. “You’ve learned from your mistakes?”

He saw the trap in the words. “You weren’t a mistake. I just want you to stop this. Take the Joker back to Arkham. Come _home_ , Jason.”

“After I cut Robin’s throat?”

“Robin told me what you said.”

With a deliberately casual tone, Jason said, “Yeah, Nightwing mentioned that he’d survived.”

Alarm shot through Bruce. “Nightwing - you encountered him? Tonight?”

“What of it?”

He knew something was wrong. Jason would not be so artful about the topic if he didn't know something was wrong. “He’s not supposed to be on patrol.” Sneaking out after him, though…that was something Dick had done ever since he was very young. He shouldn’t be surprised - Dick never could just stand by if he thought someone else was in danger. “He’s…injured.”

Jason’s voice was alarmingly calm as he said, “You mean that he’s been having panic attacks. He’s had them in front of me twice now. Do you know what caused it?”

Yes. He did. He hadn’t had the time or ability to discuss it with Dick properly, but he knew. He needed to make sure Dick saw a mental health professional, he needed to make sure Tarantula never got to see her, no, _Dick’s,_ children again, he needed Jason to come home and Tim to call and the streets to be safe.

But while Bruce thought, Jason watched. Jason knew him. He knew what to look for. “You _do_ know,” he said. “You fucking - you _know_ what happened to Nightwing. You know how he got those -“

They glanced down at the Joker simultaneously, checking to make sure he was still unconscious. If the Joker ever learned that Nightwing had children of his own…neither of them could risk it. Tim had been right. Jason still wouldn’t hurt Amy or Bridget, and wouldn’t risk it either. Fortunately, the Joker’s breathing was still steady. Just to be sure, Batman thumbed back the man’s eyelid and checked how his eyes tracked. Even the Joker couldn’t fake that.

“ - Those kids,” Jason finished, once Batman had stepped back. He shook his head. “I thought I’d be angrier, you know. If it had been _him_ who died in that warehouse, I thought you’d’ve killed _this_ piece of shit for sure.” He kicked out at the Joker’s chair, connecting with his ankle.

The Joker stirred in his chains. They watched again to make sure he wasn’t waking up.

When it subsided, Jason went on. “But if you won’t kill the bitch who raped him, I don’t know why I should expect you to kill the man who killed _me_. I’m done.”

“Jason, wait,” Bruce started, moving towards his second son.

“I’m _done_ ,” Jason snarled. He fumbled a small electronic device out of his jacket pocket, punched a button, then turned to hurl it to the other end of the warehouse. Bruce had taught him how to throw like that. With a baseball. He had a much better arm now. It was a crude way of getting whatever it was out of Batman’s reach, but effective. And while his gaze was diverted, Jason grappled up to the rafters again. He wanted to follow, but he could hear a faint beeping from the device Jason had thrown.

“This place will blow in two minutes,” Jason said. “Go ahead, save the damn clown. We both know that damn vow of yours matters to you more than me _or_ N. I’ve got a rapist to kill.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow. Thanks so much for the response to last chapter, it was amazing. Hopefully you've enjoyed this one too. The next chapter will be up next week!
> 
>  
> 
> NEXT TIME:
> 
> “And Jay?” Dick asked. Silence from Bruce. Dick could hear sirens in the background, people shouting. He could hear the same sirens from his own rooftop. “Boss? Where did he go?”
> 
> At last, Bruce said, “I don’t know.”


	27. The Next Step

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A change of plans on the fly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No special warnings this chapter. As usual, mind the tags and the note at the start of chapter one.

The second explosion was hard to miss. One moment the Gotham night was eerily quiet for an Arkham breakout night, the next there was a roar and a crash as rubble flew into the air.

That had to be where Jason had gone. Where Bruce was. Dick started towards it, still feeling like all the strength had gone out of his legs. He was thinking more clearly now, at least. He had to find both of them before they could hurt each other any more. He hoped nobody had been injured in that explosion.

He scrambled over the rooftops, feeling slow and worse, clumsy. After a minute, his earpiece buzzed. “Nightwing,” Bruce said. His voice was exhausted and croaky. “Nightwing, I know you’re there.”

“Yeah, Boss?” Dick asked, trying to sound cheerful. He doubted it worked.

“You need to go home.”

All pretense of cheerfulness immediately fell away, which was a relief to drop. “I won’t,” he said. “You were near that explosion, weren’t you?” Bruce’s silence was all he needed to confirm it. “Was it the Red Hood?” Jason. He’d said he only wanted to talk to Bruce.

“Yes,” Bruce grated out. “He was attempting to kill the Joker.”

Like he said. That was a relief. But Jason had also said - “Did he say anything?” He could feel a knot of fear in his stomach. Jason knew. He’d told Jason, kind of, but Jason wasn’t stupid and he’d put it all together. He was so _ashamed_ -

Bruce’s voice softened slightly as he said, “We’ll discuss it later. In private.”

So that was a _yes_. Bruce knew. For sure. Not just suspicions from Babs or Leslie, he _knew_. He felt sick to his stomach and wobbly in the knees and very, very cold. “I assume he left.”

“He did,” Bruce confirmed. “I’m uninjured. The Joker is in custody. Everything’s fine.”

“And Jay?” Dick asked. Silence from Bruce. Dick could hear sirens in the background, people shouting. He could hear the same sirens from his own rooftop. “Boss? Where did he go?”

At last, Bruce said, “I don’t know.”

It was a lie. Dick could hear it. Bruce was lying to him and he was too tired to lie _well_. If Dick had felt ill before, he felt awful now. “Where has he gone? Do you know?”

“Go home, Nightwing.”

The call clicked off. Dick glared at nothing, insides twisting up in knots. Jason had run off. Bruce knew where and wasn’t telling him. Had lied to him. He had the ugly feeling that Jason might be planning something else. But Bruce didn’t get to shut him out of something involving Jason. Not this time.

Without thinking too hard about it, he called Oracle, and set off towards the place where dust and smoke were drifting into the night sky.

Oracle picked up almost immediately. “Nightwing?” she asked. “I thought -”

“I couldn’t let Batman go out alone,” he said. “The Red Hood escaped. Batman won’t tell me where he went.”

“You want to find him?” She’d dropped the synthesised, genderless voice, and spoke in her normal one. She sounded a little hoarse. “Shouldn’t you be at home?”

“I’m not an invalid,” he said. To prove it, he threw in an extra flip as he jumped between a seven-story building and a six-story building. She could see it herself on the cameras she hacked. “I can help. I _want_ to help.”

“You’re having panic attacks,” Barbara said. “You shouldn’t be on the streets. Please, Nightwing -“

“I am not going to sit at home and have other people do things for me!” Fine. Maybe Tarantula _had_ done something to him that he hadn’t wanted done, but that didn’t mean they had to treat him carefully as glass over it. “Can you tell me where Red Hood went, or do I have to find him the hard way?”

He could almost hear her thinking. He tried to keep his breathing steady. Calm. The last thing he wanted or needed was her thinking he was irrational or hysterical. Over-emotional. _Compromised_.

Barbara said, so quietly it was almost lost in sirens even though she was speaking into his ear, “I don’t want to tell you.“

“I don’t care,” Dick said, suspicion growing as to where Jason was going. What Jason planned to do. “Tell me.”

“Dick.”

The use of his name only made him more determined to carry on. “He’s going after Tarantula, isn’t he.” Jason hated rapists. Dick hadn’t known his little brother as well as he ought, before he died, but he knew that. He hated rapists more than anything or anyone, except maybe the Joker, now. “Oracle, I need to know.”

What else he wanted, he wasn’t sure. He just _needed_.

“He’s almost back to his motorcycle,” Barbara said. “Can’t you leave it to Batgirl?”

“Not this,” he said. Cass was skilled, _more_ than skilled enough for this…but this was personal. With Jason, with Tarantula, both things were personal. He had to handle this himself.  “Where did he park?”

She gave him directions. Dick turned his back on the aftermath of the explosion - Bruce was fine, he was satisfied of that - and set off across the rooftops. It helped to get some of the chill out of his bones. The running helped soothe him too. While he focused on not falling, he didn’t have to think about why he was running in the first place.

As he got closer to his own bike, Barbara said, “I just don’t want you to feel _obliged_ to save her.”

Dick couldn’t answer. He wasn’t sure he _did_ feel obliged to save her. Not in the slighest. He’d felt like that once. It hadn’t worked out well. “I want to find Jason,” he said at last. “He’s my priority. I don’t want him shot breaking into Lockhaven.”

“All right,” Barbara said. “Just promise me…she’s hurt you enough. I don’t want you hurt any more on her account.”

Throat dry, Dick said, “I’ll try my best.” He wished he knew how he could manage that.

As he set off again, Barbara said, “I’m sorry. For what I said a few days ago. I didn’t know.”

He would have liked nothing more than to be able to accept the apology, but he found himself choking back the words _you could have asked_ instead. “I know,” he said. “I know. I didn’t want it to be like that either.”

“Don’t. Don’t apologise. Not for that. It’s my fault, how it went. I shouldn’t have said what I did. I should have listened when - I’m _sorry_ , Dick.”

_Apology accepted_. The words stuck in his throat. He couldn't, not yet. Eventually, though. He’d eventually be able to accept that apology, and they’d eventually stop being awkward around each other, and maybe, if he was lucky, his girls really would have an Aunt Babs. He’d like that. “Where to next?” he asked instead, and listened as she gave him directions.

 

—

 

“You be Robin,” Tim said, and it was all Steph could do not to laugh.

Seriously. Robin? _Her_? “I don’t think the red would suit me,” she said.

“You said it yourself,” Tim said. “Batman needs Robin. If I can’t do it, someone has to. Why not you? He knows you. He…doesn’t _dis_ like you, I think.”

“Oh, that’s a good starting point.”

“It’s better than you’d think.” Tim’s voice was grim as his mentor’s. “He doesn’t like many people. It took him ages to warm up to me.”

Yeah, but. A whole bunch of insecurities rushed over her. Tim was smart. Super smart, Batman level smart. By contrast, Steph was fairly bright. Nothing special. Definitely not as well educated. Or as well trained. She was fit and athletic, but fit and athletic _enough_? She didn’t know. Her back still ached from that punch. If she’d been more skilled -

Also, she was a blonde girl. She didn’t fit the black-haired blue-eyed male mold for Robins. Maybe that was a silly thing to feel insecure about, but now that Tim had mentioned the Robin thing, it kinda came to the forefront of her mind. “I don’t know, Tim. I’m not sure I could manage it.”

“I think you can.”

Damn it. Tim _meant_ it. Not many people said that sort of thing to her, much less meant it when they did. Now she felt all gooey inside, and that was just embarrassing. She fought through it. “Have you mentioned it to him?” she asked.

“That’s not the way to handle him,” Tim said absently. She didn’t know what was going on at his end of the line, but it sounded like he’d split his attention. Sucked to be Tim. Dodging parents was hard, Tim still wasn’t really used to it, and he had his stepmother to worry about as well.

“Ask forgiveness, not permission?” she said. Hint hint, Tim. He could still be Robin.

“Exactly. Will you think about it?”

Because it was Tim, she said, “I guess.”

They ended the call not long afterwards. It had been a while since Steph had spent a whole night in, just working on her homework backlog and watching TV. To tell the truth she probably needed the break. Not to mention time to think about Tim’s plan. She definitely felt okay taking a bit more time off for her poor abused kidney to get its act together.

She could remember what it had been like on the streets when Batman was in that gap between Robin Two and Tim, not that she’d had the first idea what was going on. She just knew that every criminal she’d encountered on those first, tentative trips out as Spoiler had been jumping out of their skins, terrified that Batman was going to maul them. She didn’t like the idea of the big man going back to that.

But she also couldn’t deny that she really, _really_ liked the idea of getting better gear and training. If Batman let this happen, she’d definitely get both. And she did like B, kind of, in a cautious sort of way. There was no denying he was a pretty grouchy guy.

Could she work with him, though? If that wasn’t getting ahead of herself. Would _Batman_ want to work with _her_?

Steph lay awake in her nice warm bed, wishing she could be out on a chilly rooftop instead, thinking. That might qualify her for Bat-school. 

Why was she hesitating over this? It was a great offer. What Gotham kid _hadn’t_ wondered what it would be like to be Robin at some point? Steph sure had. She probably wouldn’t have created Spoiler if not for Robin. (Come to think of it, the Robin she’d been most directly inspired by was probably the one who’d punched her in the kidney. Never meet your heroes.) Being Robin herself, maybe…she could give up being _Spoiler_ in favour of another mask, with her dad still in Blackgate where he belonged, hopefully for a few more years at least, but Robin was _Tim’s_ thing.

Oh. That was why, she realised. She didn’t want to get in Tim's way.

It just seemed to her like Robin was one of a very few things that made Tim happy. She didn’t want to take that from him.

Outside her bedroom door, she heard the quiet sounds of her mother arriving back after her shift, the latch clacking and the chain rattling. That was followed by the equally unobtrusive sounds of her making a cup of tea. It was comforting. She liked having her mom around. It didn’t get in the way of her wanting to sneak out and fight crime. It sucked that Tim had to pick. Or felt he had to pick.

Steph faked sleep when her mother came to check on her. She was supposed to be grounded, after all, and Steph was prepared to honour that for a few nights. She should have called. Once her mother was gone, though, she couldn’t stand it any longer, and headed up to the rooftop. In deference to her sore kidney, she used the fire escape rather than any fancier climbing.

When she looked out over the city, there was smoke _everywhere,_ showing flashing red and blue lights from the police cars. Holy crap. That - over there, that was where Arkham was. What happened? Another breakout? As if they didn’t have enough to deal with already.

She wanted to be out there. Helping. As best she could. She knew Tim would want the same, if he could see the smoke.

Maybe…she could be a part time Robin. Just until Tim could come back.

 

—

 

It wasn’t supposed to go like that.

Jason felt empty. There was no green sickness burning in the back of his mind. He’d been expecting it. Relying on it. But it had vanished with thoughts of Nightwing, leaving him feeling hollow and worried instead of angry. He shouldn’t have left Dick alone. Not after what he’d said.

But when he went back to that alley where he’d run into Nightwing, Dick wasn’t there. Figured. That jackass never could stay still for thirty seconds altogether. No matter how typical it was of him, it didn’t mean Jason didn’t want to hit him in the face for being so damn stupid any less. He turned away reluctantly. If Nightwing had left, Jason probably wasn’t going to catch up with him.

In any case, he really did have a rapist to kill. The sooner the better. If he left it too long, Batman would get his act together and either do something to save that human garbage himself, or let the authorities know.

Impromptu prison break-in it was. Not a bad night for it. If he hurried, he could get into and out of Lockhaven before dawn. Leaving a very dead woman behind.

He took off his cowl and the mask underneath it. It was ever so slightly easier to drive without them, and it wasn’t as if the Bats didn’t know who he was. And if anyone else saw him…well, who else but the Bats cared about Jason Todd? For whatever the value of _cared_ was.

He still hadn’t visited his nieces. Worse, he hadn’t asked Dick about them. Maybe once he made sure their mom was dead. Best thing he could do for all of them. Amy and Bridget would understand when they were older, if they ever needed to find out at all.

Jason tore through Gotham’s streets, paying careful attention to police radio. Now that the initial shock of the Arkham explosions was handled and police attention was split with the warehouse Jason had blown up on top of that, the streets were getting busier again. A few scuffles had started to break out in the usual hot spots, and robberies were starting to spike.

He wanted nothing to do with any of it. Let Gotham’s underbelly eat itself alive tonight for all he cared.

“The Joker is in custody,” dispatch reported. “Repeat, the Joker is in custody.”

“Thank god,” Jim Gordon’s voice rasped. “Who brought him in? Any injuries?”

“The Batman,” the dispatcher said. “Rundle and Santiago said he looked a bit the worse for wear.”

Of course Bruce had made it out okay. With the Joker. Who was probably also fine. He could imagine the scene as clear as day, Batman covered in dust, cape slightly torn, hauling a slightly battered Joker out from the rubble, the clown giggling, makeup smeared, as if the danger and blood was just the _best_ occasion for laughs. It was tempting to turn back and finish the job, if Bruce wouldn’t do it. So tempting.

But then he thought of Dick’s pale face and the way he’d mumbled. Dick never shut up, until he did. That alone should have told anyone who knew him how badly off he was.

It was probably how Bruce had found out.

Just the thought of Bruce knowing, knowing and doing _nothing_ , brought some anger back. How long had he known? Why hadn’t he done anything? The latter question kept coming back, weighing on his mind even as he sped down the highway towards Bludhaven. Why hadn’t Bruce done anything? He loved Dick. Jason was _certain_ of that. Bruce loved Dick so much there wasn’t room left in his tiny, stunted little heart for Jason.

And yet Tarantula was safe in Lockhaven. As far as Jason knew, Bruce hadn’t even dropped by in costume to break her jaw. At _least_ , he would have expected Bruce to go and break her jaw. Honestly, he’d’ve expected Bruce to have tried to kill her.

But he hadn’t. He wouldn’t even do that. Not even for the son he loved. Jason’s heart felt like a rock in his chest. It took another mile of driving, feeling miserable, before he realised that he was disappointed.

Fuck, why was he _disappointed_? That was bullshit! He’d given up on Bruce. He’d told Bruce so. It wasn’t fair. Why could he still get hurt like this? He should never have expected anything better.

Well, he wasn’t going to leave it there. If Bruce wouldn’t take care of the person (he used that term in only its most technical sense; as far as he was concerned, rapists didn’t have much humanity) who had hurt Dick, then Jason would. _Jason_ cared.

No he didn’t, he told himself viciously. He couldn’t care less about that stuck-up prettyboy. Dick had never had time for him, never liked him, was jealous that Bruce paid more attention to him. Jason was only doing this because it was right, even if Dick was a colossal jerk. This wasn’t any different to the other times he’d killed rapists. It _wasn’t_.

He wasn’t thinking straight. He had to get his head in order before he got to Lockhaven, or he was just asking for trouble. Even if he didn’t care about Dick, _which he didn’t_ , Dick would probably be upset if he heard Jason had been hurt sneaking into Lockhaven for his sake.

He’d never seen Nightwing look so vulnerable before tonight.

Head on straight, Jason. Focus. Mask back on, too.

Jason had only been to Lockhaven twice, both times before he died, but he remembered the best approach for stealth. It was on the outskirts of the city, so it was usually best to come at the less populated side of the building. He spotted the cameras on the razor-wire-topped fence that marked the outermost perimeter. It was set to pan over a section of fence, so it was just a matter of waiting until the camera wasn’t pointed at him. He threw his reinforced jacket over the razor wire and climbed over the fence.

Easy. Jason snuck closer.

It looked like Lockhaven was on alert. The exterior lights were on full beam, and the glow of more was visible from inside. Jason glanced up and saw only light pollution. Around the walls, the guards seemed to be actually awake. What sort of vigilante would he be if he couldn’t deal with a few guards and a big light?

Still not a big deal. And not as great a state of alertness as Jason would have expected if Bats had got in touch with them and told them to expect him. So far, so good.

There were more cameras, of course, and these ones didn’t pan. He threw a rock at one and knocked it out of alignment, creating a small blind spot for him to scale the outermost wall in. He waited just below the guards’ walkway, muscles straining, for his opportunity - then, when the guard was finally past him and facing away, jumped to the roof. 

He stuck to the more shadowed side, under the line of the rooftop so he didn’t show a silhouette, and started looking for the block for female inmates. If he remembered the Lockhaven blueprints Bruce had once made him study, it was on the western side of the central couryard, not a separate building, but still walled off from the men’s cellblocks. He could get there by just following the same roof he was already on.

Five minutes of careful sneaking later, he was looking at a sign over a door that read _Women’s Block_. Too easy. Now he just had to find a list of the cells and their occupants, and through that, Tarantula’s exact location.

_You’ve got another half hour on this earth,_ Jason mentally promised. _I hope you don’t enjoy a second of it._

He had brought the stuff necessary to get through a barred window and security glass. He’d started the night planning to visit Arkham; it was only sensible. He let himself down to a likely-looking window and started sawing at it.

He hadn’t been at it for a minute before Nightwing dropped down beside him and said, “Hi again, Jason.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you everyone for your continued support! Every kudos, bookmark, and comment is much loved. Next chapter will be up next week!
> 
>  
> 
> NEXT TIME:
> 
> There was no telling Jason’s reaction while he was wearing the helmet, but his brother did at least turn to look at him. “Go home, Nightwing,” he said.
> 
> Again? “I am sick and tired of people telling me that,” Dick snapped.


	28. A Rooftop in Bludhaven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Talking it out is one option.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No special warnings, but seriously, mind the tags and the note on chapter one this week.

It was bravado. Sheer bravado. Now that he was here, Dick wasn’t at all sure he wanted to be.

Almost two weeks ago he’d walked in the visitor’s entrance to collect his daughters, the first time ever he’d come here as Dick Grayson. It felt like so much longer. And just looking at this place…how could his girls have been born here? They were - they were - they were too _good_ for a place like this. They should never have been in here for a second.

It was hard to focus. Nightwing hadn’t been to Lockhaven for a long time either. He’d been glad of it. It was because of Tarantula, he could admit to himself. He hadn’t liked the idea of being in the same building with her.

No time to panic. Dick made himself keep talking. “Funny I should meet you here,” he said, attempting and falling short of a casual tone. “Anything in particular you wanted?”

There was no telling Jason’s reaction while he was wearing the helmet, but his brother did at least turn to look at him. “Go home, Nightwing,” he said.

Again? “I am sick and tired of people telling me that,” Dick snapped.

“You shouldn’t be here.”

“Neither should you.”

The bar Jason was working at gave way, and he caught it and carefully tucked it in his jacket rather than let it fall to the ground with a noise that would attract attention. The gap it left over the window was wide enough for Tim to get through, or even Dick if he really contorted himself, but not nearly enough for a grown-up Jason. He started cutting through a second, looking away from Dick to better get through his self-appointed task. “I’ve got business here, Nightwing. Don’t get in my way.”

“What business, Red?” He wanted to hear him say it. He wanted to be certain.

“Run back to Batman,” Jason grunted at him. “You don’t want to be here for this.”

“I think I do,” Dick said. There was no particular emphasis on the word _think_ , but it was a close-run thing. He didn’t want to be here at all. Just the thought that Catalina was _here_ …

Jason’s head tilted slightly, and stopped his cutting for a second. “You could bring every guard here running if you shouted,” he said intently. “Why haven’t you?”

“I told you -“

“You want to be here,” Jason finished. “Yeah, okay. I _think_ I believe that. Well, if you’re not going to start yelling, you might as well come with me. Might even help.” He went back to sawing at the bars. Soon a second would give way and Jason would be able to get through. 

Dick should shout. He really should. The guards would come straight away at the disturbance. But he couldn’t make himself do it. Instead he reached out and grabbed Jason’s wrist. “Let’s just go,” he said. “No need to fight.”

But Jason shook his arm off. “Only if you’re not going to stop me,” he said. “And you’ll have to make me. She’s forfeited her right to live.”

The second bar came away in Jason’s hand. He tucked it away just like he had the first one, and pulled out a glasscutter for the window behind the bars. “You going to do anything about the alarms?” He asked.

Dick hesitated, then climbed up to the control box above the window and shut it down. “You don’t have to do this,” he said. “I don’t want you to get arrested.”

“What touching concern. Are you going to tell this to the replacement? I bet he’d like to see me locked up.”

“You’re wrong about Robin,” Dick said, as Jason removed the glass and went through the window. The twist of his shoulders as he did was one of the few things Dick had taught him, when Jay had been too embarrassed to admit to Bruce he was having trouble with tight spaces. Dick followed him in, landing cat-quiet in the prison hallway. There was not a guard in sight, only bare, neutral blue-painted corridor with intermittent security lights.

Jason ignored him, in favour of following a green line painted on the floor. “Office should be this way,” he said. He looked up, checking as Dick had that the ceiling was not a viable means of travel. No acoustic tiles here. Just more bare concrete. So they just walked. Right down the hall. No guards appeared to apprehend them. They must have mostly been outside, on guard for people breaking in, like Arkham earlier in the night. A bit late now, Dick thought.

They found the office. Its keypad could not withstand Jason. He was in within a minute.

“Please,” Dick said. Jason was actually doing this. “We should leave.”

“No. Not until Tarantula’s dead. I’m doing this for you, jackass. And your kids.” He flipped through a log book before stabbing a gloved finger at one entry. “There. She’s got a cell to herself at the moment. Medical reasons, that bitch. Let’s get on with it. The sooner I shoot her in the face, the sooner we can leave.”

They were doing this. Or Jason was. Dick’s hands and feet felt clumsy. He followed along behind his brother as if on a string. Why had he even _come_? Tarantula was there. He knew he never wanted to see her again. Just the photograph, on Bruce’s screen, had almost been more than he could handle.

Jason counted off doors, before stopping. “The next one is hers,” he said. “I’m going to go in and kill her. Do you want to watch?”

He couldn’t think. Jason’s voice echoed like Dick was back in the stairwell of that Bludhaven motel, words bouncing off concrete and steel. Whatever Jason was thinking, his helmet gave no trace of it away as he looked back and stepped forward. The door to Tarantula’s cell put up no more resistance than anything else Lockhaven had set in their way thus far.

Standing outside, Dick heard Catalina say, “Who the hell are you?”

Jason said, “You’re Catalina Flores?”

She was scared, Dick could hear it. “What’s it to you?”

“Then you’re the one who raped Nightwing,” Jason said.

Dick’s legs almost gave out right there. He didn’t want to be here after all.

“Rape?” Catalina said, and _god_ , she sounded _offended,_ as well as frightened. “What rape? He wanted it. Get out of my cell.”

Jason cocked his gun. That sound echoed too. Dick remembered that sound. _Get out of the way, Nightwing._ And he’d stood aside. He’d stood aside and let Catalina kill Blockbuster. He - he couldn’t - he _didn’t want_ -

No standing aside. Not this time. Not again.

He lunged past Jason and put himself between Catalina and the gun, only getting a brief glimpse of her as he moved. “No,” he said. “Stop.”

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Jason demanded. “You can’t be fucking serious, N. That piece of shit” - he gestured past Dick with his gun - “ _raped you_.”

“Yes,” Dick said, though behind him Catalina scoffed. “She did.”

“Bastard! Liar!” Catalina hissed. “If you didn’t want it, why did you let me climb on top of you? Sure seemed like you enjoyed it when your cock was in me.”

It was so close to what Dick had been telling himself for months that it was hard to ignore. But he focused on the gun in Jason’s hand instead. As soon as he’d interposed himself, Jason had lowered it slightly, apparently not willing to risk hurting him.

“Then let me fix it,” Jason said. He’d never sounded so much like Bruce before. “Step aside and you don’t have to listen to her say stuff like _that_ ever again.”

“It’s not going to fix anything,” Dick said. “Put the gun down. Let’s _go_.”

He wished he could see Jason’s face, but it was impossible to miss how his shoulders tensed, even in the gloom. “You deserve better,” he said. “So do…the two you have at home. Did you think about that?”

Dick resolutely did not look at Catalina and kept his voice quiet, just between them. “Yes. They deserve better. Like an uncle who didn’t murder their mother.”

“For you!” Jason shouted. The gun came back up, drifting ever so slightly to the right, as if he could shoot around Dick and hit Catalina. “I’m doing this for _you_!”

“I don’t want that,” Dick said, as next to them he could hear another inmate banging at their bars. The guards would be on their way very soon. “If you kill her, it’s for yourself. Not for me.”

The gun stopped its slight movement. “You don’t want me to -?”

“No,” Dick said. He stepped closer. Reached out. Put his hand on the gun and gently pushed it down until it was pointing safely at the floor. “No. Let’s go.”

Behind him, Catalina laughed. He heard, rather than saw, her slump back down against her bunk. “Thank you, querido. You’re quite the hero.”

Dick didn’t turn around. He still felt sick and he still wanted out, and if he turned around he wasn’t sure that he wouldn’t step aside and let Jason kill her after all. _Just keep going, Grayson_. _Just keep going._ She couldn’t hurt him any more. Especially not with Jason here.

He took Jason’s arm and started hustling him out of the crowded cell. 

Jason, though, wasn’t content to go without a parting shot of _some_ kind. “Lucky for you,” he said, “Or you’d have your brains splattered across the wall right now. Just remember that for when the rest of the family comes to visit you.”

“The rest -“ Catalina started, but Dick was already kicking the barred door back into place. The clatter as Jason slammed the bolts back was a relief so intense it almost felt like a drug.

“We’re done here,” Dick said. “Coming?”

“After you,” Jason said.

Together they took off out of Lockhaven before the guards could catch up with them.

 

—

 

They stopped on a rooftop in Bludhaven proper, just before the sun came up. Jason was exhausted. Dick didn’t look much better. Under his mask and naturally tan skin he looked washed out. And Jason had definitely seen the way he’d been shaking. Sure, he’d landed on the roof smoothly, but he’d sat down pretty hard afterwards. “I should have killed her anyway,” Jason grumbled.

“Thanks for not doing it,” Dick said.

“Fuck you,” Jason said, feeling both eloquent and cheated. He’d set out to kill two people tonight, and teach at least one more a sharp lesson, and he’d failed each time. He’d barely even felt the madness of the Lazarus Pit, and he’d been expecting it. He’d thought it would help get him through this. “You even have to be a perfect little victim. Golden boy even shows me up forgiving his rapist -“

“I didn’t forgive her and I didn’t stop you killing her to spite you,” Dick interrupted. He stood up and headed to the edge of the roof, scanning the dingy Bludhaven skyline for something. “I’d been fighting Blockbuster - you know, Roland Desmond?”

“The mob boss who got shot last year?” When Dick looked at him, Jason added, “What? I did my homework.”

“Guess so.” Dick pointed to a crane, poking above the rooftops a few blocks away. “About there. I think that’s it. Or was. Anyway. I had him dead to rights, and he said there was nothing I could do to him. He was just going to keep on killing anyone who talked to me, and I couldn’t do anything about it because I couldn’t kill him.”

Fair enough assessment, Jason thought. But Dick was talking. Dick had _never_ talked to him about this sort of thing before. He must have been desperate. Then and now.

“That’s when Tarantula showed up. She said if I stepped aside, she’d kill him for me. He’d blown up my apartment building, burned down Haly’s Circus, I still had the blood of someone he’d shot to make that point on my face, I hadn’t eaten, I hadn’t slept…I couldn’t think. I stepped aside.” He shook his head. “I shouldn’t say it like - well, that doesn’t matter. I _knew_ it was wrong and I stepped aside anyway.”

Oh, fuck, he really couldn’t do anything right, could he? When he’d set up that warehouse for Bruce, he’d meant to hurt him, but when he’d let Dick tag along into Lockhaven he hadn’t planned to accidentally reenact what was pretty clearly the leadup to Dick’s rape. God _damn_ it. “Dick -“ he started, and stopped. He didn’t know how to apologise. Just that he should.

“No, I need to finish,” Dick said, still talking to the Bludhaven skyline more than anything else. “If you’re fine with listening.”

Jason hesitated, and said, “Sure.”

“After she shot him, I went up to the roof. I could barely breathe, I remember that. She followed me, kissed me. I told her not to touch me. She said,” his voice cracked over the words, “she’d help me relax, and she pushed me down. And I just…lay there, looking at the sky, while she did what she did.”

“While she raped you,” Jason growled, temper getting the best of him. Not at Dick, no, but he couldn’t stand to hear him talk around it.

“Yes. While she raped me.” He added, “I didn’t find out about the girls until just before Christmas.”

“Are you going to keep them?” Jason asked. “If you don’t want to, I’ll find them good homes, I swear, I don’t care what the City of Gotham - Bludhaven? - either - has to say about it. Promise. You won’t have to see them again and they won’t have to know.”

“They’re mine,” he said. “I’ll make it work somehow. They’re not responsible for their mom.”

Sooner or later, that would cause a bit of drama, Jason thought. But it was Dick’s decision to make.

“It’ll be easier with family,” Dick said casually, still not looking at him.

So he didn’t want Jason around. That hurt. It shouldn’t have. Dick had never acted like a brother to him. Jason should know better than this by now. “Going to replace me as an uncle too, are you?” he asked.

Dick whipped around immediately, visibly shocked despite the mask. “What? No. The girls can have more than one uncle. If you want to be their uncle, anyway. I - I know I wasn’t a very good brother, but I did, do, care, and I’d like to change things.”

Jason snorted. “You’re nuts. I cut the replacement’s throat last night and you want us to make nice?”

“It’d be good if you didn’t do that again. And maybe said sorry.” He smiled crookedly. “He’s a nice kid. Smart. All he wanted to do was help B. He tried to get me to come back, before he put on the Robin costume himself, and believe me, B wasn’t happy about it. Refused a few times. You weren’t forgotten.”

“Then why’s the Joker still alive?” he snapped. “All he said was _I can’t_ , and it’s bullshit!”

“He tried,” Dick said. “Superman stopped him. Broke his arm. He wasn’t coping. He kicked me out of the house last Christmas, I think even Alfred was on the verge of quitting…he was getting more and more reckless on the street, it was only a matter of time before he did something _really_ bad. Losing you almost killed him. He’s only just been getting better the last few months.”

There was quiet between them while Jason tried to imagine Bruce distraught, arm broken, kicking Dick out of the house, even driving Alfred away, and then Dick said, “Killing the Joker wouldn’t have fixed anything, not for him. He just wanted you back.”

_Come home, Jason._ “I can’t,” Jason said. “Go back. I can’t be the perfect little murder victim, back from the dead.” It was all very well for Dick to put himself between Jason and his own rapist ( _how?_ Never mind that he’d said that he hadn’t forgiven her, he’d still _saved her life_ ), but Jason was still angry. About being murdered. It seemed fair enough to _him_.

“Is there such a thing?”

That fucking smile. It didn’t even have the decency to be his usual blinding show of teeth, the one Jason remembered and instinctively distrusted. That stupid crooked smile made Dick look less like he’d stepped off the front page of _Glamour Vigilantes_ and more like a tired human being. Fuck him. He wanted to punch Dick, and he wanted to go back to Lockhaven and kill Tarantula anyway, and he wanted Dick to drive him back to the Manor and explain to Bruce and Alfred that this was just a huge mistake and he wanted to come home. Worse, he didn’t know which he wanted most.

“I’ve killed people,” he said.

“We know. I think Bruce just wants you to stop. He _loves_ you, Jason.”

Now he definitely couldn’t go back. That was the scariest damn thing he’d heard in years. He’d killed people, with guns, he’d cut the replacement’s throat and tried to make Batman kill the Joker, and Bruce loved him? Nuh-uh. Jason would believe it when he saw it.

“I can’t,” he said. “I just - I can’t.”

It was a bullshit answer.

“All right,” Dick said. “Would you like to meet my daughters?”

Jason snorted. Honestly, he was relieved not to be talking about Bruce any more. He’d had enough of that for one night. “I don’t think you’ve got space to carry them in that outfit.”

Masks were great for hiding when someone was rolling their eyes, but he had the distinct feeling that Dick was doing it anyway. “Later,” he said. “Not back in the cave. Somewhere more neutral.”

“Last time I got anywhere near your girls you punched me.” And it still hurt when he moved wrong.

“Last time you got anywhere near my girls you’d broken in, with a gun, and started talking about killing B. Now I’m asking.” The smile fell away, and Jason could see the same sort of vulnerability that had been there earlier in the night, when he’d shouted at Jason _I didn’t want any of it_. “You tried to help. Even if it’s not what I want, you tried. And you listened when I said I didn’t want her dead.”

“Yeah, well.” How could he _not_ listen? That was what Tarantula had ignored in the first place, Dick saying no. If anyone had the right to say she should live, it was Dick. “What she did wasn’t right.”

Dick opened his mouth. Jason glared at him, just in case he was about to say something like ‘it was my fault too.’ He shut it, then tried again. “You didn’t answer my question, though. Do you want to meet my daughters?”

“Yeah,” Jason said. “Yeah, I do.”

“One week. The penthouse rooftop. We’ll be the only ones there, you have my word. No B, no Robin, and I’ll shut off all the cameras.”

That…was a lot of trust, for someone trained by Bruce. He didn’t doubt that Dick would keep those terms. He was a sap like that. Dick shouldn’t trust him, he really shouldn’t. But while he was offering - and it _was_ a lot easier than sneaking into Wayne Manor -

“Yeah, okay,” Jason said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks everyone so much for reading, bookmarking, commenting, kudos-ing, everything. The next chapter will be up in a week!
> 
>  
> 
> NEXT TIME:
> 
> “I’m going after him myself,” Bruce said. He was almost at the Batmobile. He could catch up. Hopefully before Jason reached Lockhaven -
> 
> Oracle said, “You shouldn’t. You’ve already tried talking both of them down tonight.” And failed, were the words she didn’t need to add to the end of that sentence.


	29. A Father's Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Who needs Bruce most?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No special warnings, but as always, mind the tags.

Once he’d cut Nightwing off, Batman stood in the rubble of the destroyed warehouse and waited for the police to arrive. The blast had knocked him into a fire hydrant; his ribs ached fiercely from the awkward impact, but at least they didn’t feel broken. His right wrist felt worse, but like his ribs, probably not broken. His cheek stung and he could feel blood sliding slowly down to his chin. Every inch of him was covered with dust.

In front of him was the Joker, and he was at last stirring from his drugged sleep.

The temptation to kill him wasn’t going away. Batman knew it never would. For what the Joker had done to Jason, he would _always_ want to kill the Joker. Knowing that killing the Joker might convince Jason to come home made it even worse.

At least the crowbar was out of sight, lost in the explosion.

Before the Joker could wake up, Batman tore the sleeves away from his Arkham jumpsuit, as well as the pants below the knee, and confiscated his shoes. Only one hidden knife. Then he cuffed the Joker hand and foot and tied his elbows and knees for good measure. There was no such thing as too cautious, and Batman couldn’t care less if the Joker suffered muscle strain and a bit of a chill.

As the sirens approached, the Joker woke up with a broad smile. “Oh, _Batsy_ ,” he said, testing the cuffs and ropes. “Bondage and chaos? This _is_ a good dream. What do you say we ditch the police and stay out a bit longer?”

“You’re going straight back to Arkham,” Batman said. He had other places to be. More important people in his life. Dick and Jason were both elsewhere in Gotham, in trouble. It still counted if they were the ones causing that trouble. He needed to go find them.

The GCPD took the Joker into custody, the officers shooting him sideways glances as they approached, and as soon as they’d taken him, Batman zipped off into the night. 

Jason had said he intended to go kill a rapist. If he had talked to Nightwing, there was no doubt who he had in mind with that statement. (How had he discovered it? Bruce was still reeling.) And he was sorely tempted to exact some vengeance from Tarantula for that as well, though…it was hard to accept. That she had hurt Dick. That Bruce’s granddaughters were related to her.

_We both know that damn vow of your matters more to you than me or N._

That was going to haunt him. True or not, that was going to haunt him.

He called for Oracle. “Where are they?” he asked, no preamble. Oracle would know what, and who, he meant. He could look past whatever Barbara had said to Dick (it wasn’t hard to guess, and _how_ his perspective had changed on that since yesterday) if she would just help him find his sons now.

“Going to Bludhaven,” Oracle reported.

“Both of them?”

“Yes.”

“Nightwing?” he asked, just to be absolutely sure.

“Yes.”

Anger battled with fear. “You couldn’t have stopped Nightwing, at least?” he snapped. “Lied to him?” Anything to stop him running to Bludhaven to stop his brother from murdering the woman who’d raped him - or, worse, be unable to stop him, for whatever reason. Dick didn’t need any more trauma over this.

“No,” Oracle said, cold as ice. “I’ve done enough to hurt him in the last few days. I’m not doing more. He’s an adult, and he’s not stupid. He was pretty sure what Jason was planning to do.” Her voice softened, and she added, “I’ve already sent Batgirl after him, just in case.”

“I’m going after him myself,” Bruce said. He was almost at the Batmobile. He could catch up. Hopefully before Jason reached Lockhaven -

Oracle said, “You shouldn’t. You’ve already tried talking both of them down tonight.” _And failed_ , were the words she didn’t need to add to the end of that sentence. “You want to do him some good? Go home and wait. He’ll need you then.”

Go home?

He didn’t often hear people _tell_ him that. Clark had, once or twice. Barbara, never before. Batman was needed on the streets, she knew that. Batman -

 _Batman_. It hit him as hard as he’d hit the fire hydrant. It was _Bruce_ who might be needed, at Wayne Manor, when his children got back. Dick _would_ be back. Cass would make sure of it. As for Jason, he wouldn’t give up hope. Even if Jason had given up on him, he’d have to show him that he was wrong. Then all that could improve matters was Tim, who at least was safe in his own home.

And all he had to do was not interfere, against all the instincts he’d developed working with his children.

“I’ll stay in Gotham,” he said reluctantly. It did nothing to assuage his anxiety. Dick and Jason, Jason and Dick, they might _need_ him. It was hard to change that definition of need.

Oracle didn’t say anything else, and Batman returned to cleaning up the run-of-the-mill Arkham escapees. Eventually (it felt like half the night, but was probably little more than an hour) he couldn’t stand it any longer and called Batgirl. “Report,” he said.

“Following Nightwing,” she said. “I’ve almost caught them.”

“They’ve gone to Lockhaven?”

“Yes,” Cass confirmed. “I will make sure Dick comes back. Don’t worry.”

It was Cass. If there was anyone who could forcibly drag Dick back to the manor if he was getting in over his head, it was Cass. Another reason he didn’t need to go himself.

Bruce Wayne was needed at his home, he told himself, and started the drive back. It felt wrong without Robin. Any of the Robins. Or Batgirl. It had been quite some time since he’d driven back home alone and worried as he was now. Alfred meeting him in the cave was not reassuring, since it only confirmed that Alfred had been worried too - worried enough to move not just himself, but both Amy and Bridget down to the cave.

“It good to see you back, Master Bruce,” Alfred said, but his eyebrows had beetled into a frown. “What of Master Richard and Master Jason?”

“They…encountered…each other at some point in the evening,” Bruce said. “Jason’s headed to Lockhaven, presumably to kill Tarantula.”

“Whatever for?” Alfred asked, still frowning. “I understand she may be an unpleasant individual, but Master Jason was never one to inflict violence at random.”

Damn. He’d forgotten. In all the chaos of the day, he’d forgotten. Alfred didn’t know. Of all of them - he was just so used to Alfred knowing everything of importance. “She - she _hurt_ Dick,” he said hesitantly. “I don’t know what Dick said to Jason, but…”

Alfred, being Alfred, didn’t need to hear the word to put the final pieces into place. “And Master Jason has gone to inflict some retribution?” He marched over and started to help Bruce with his cape and cowl. “You are an only child, Master Bruce, and there are many things about siblings you do not understand. Fighting between brothers is normal, and whatever disagreements and resentments lie between Master Richard and Master Jason will pale next to this. I doubt you need to fear what either of them might do to the other, except accidentally.”

“I worked that much out,” Bruce said. “About the time Jason started accusing me of not caring for Dick, either.” He’d be touched at Jason’s concern for his brother, if that concern wasn’t intended to manifest itself in cold-blooded murder. Admittedly, he was still touched, it was just mixed with a lot of concern.

“Hmm, well,” Alfred sniffed. “I shall hold out hope. If you’ll excuse me, sir, your cape is quite filthy, and sorely in need of a launder.”

Bruce let him without further objection. Alfred usually busied himself with household tasks when he was feeling particularly emotional. He settled himself down next to his granddaughters, who appeared to have woken with the Batmobile’s return. Amy was crying, her baby lungs working efficiently to alert everyone in the vicinity that she was upset.

Bruce Wayne was needed at home. He could see that now. He stripped off his gauntlets and picked up the crying girl to comfort her.

 

—

 

Dick let Jason leave, after that. He didn’t think he should push further or follow him home. Or wherever he was staying. Trust was important.

He was shaking. Since they’d got inside Lockhaven, he’d only stopped while the adrenaline from fleeing the prison guards had been racing through him. Now he was in real trouble, since the sun was almost up, and he was a long way from Gotham.

A quiet, feminine voice next to him said, “I brought clothes for you. And money. In case you want to stay here for the day.”

“Batgirl?” He hadn’t even noticed her walk up to him.

Cass said, “Oracle and Batman sent me. They thought I might be best for this. I caught up outside the prison.” She shrugged, which was her way of saying, _I thought it was a good idea_ _too_. 

Dick saw, but he also had to process what that meant. If Cass had been following him, them, since Lockhaven - “You heard everything?” he asked. 

“Yes. I’m sorry.”

For overhearing or for what happened? Dick wondered for a second, but this was Cass. She’d probably meant both and he’d just missed the twist of eyebrows and jaw that indicated it. “It’s all right,” he said, defeated and resigned. There it was. They’d all know. 

“It is not,” Cass said firmly. She hesitated slightly, and spread her arms away from her sides a little. _May I hug you?_ , that meant. Dick nodded, and was promptly hit with all of the second Batgirl’s wiry weight and considerable strength. Dick hugged her back just as hard.

When she let go, he said, “I’d rather go back to Gotham. I think we can make it before the morning traffic.”

Cass nodded. “I parked around the corner from you.”

Hopefully Jason hadn’t worked out they were being watched. Dick hadn’t, but under the circumstances that didn’t say much. “Let’s get moving.”

They sped back to Gotham at a frankly inadvisable pace. It helped. Adrenaline response was normal and appropriate while zooming along the highway in a high-speed motorcycle race. It felt less wrong, less sick. More like he’d just been out on patrol as usual. 

The sun was up by the time they skidded into the cave. Bruce was waiting for them, wearing a frown and civilian clothing that didn’t entirely hide the bulk of bandages around his ribs. He’d also got a shallow, bloody scratch down his chin, and a bruise on his left hand. At least.

There was no sign of Alfred, but between that and the occupied cribs in Bruce’s sightline, Dick would have to say the butler had gone to bed. He smiled at his adoptive father as he passed and went to check on his girls first. Sound asleep.

“They’ve been fed,” Bruce said. “Then they went right to sleep.”

“Good,” Dick said. “I’m glad they weren’t too much trouble.”

Bruce hovered awkwardly, saying nothing further. When it got unbearable, Dick asked, “Did you want to ask about Jason or did you want to yell at me for going out?” Bruce didn’t answer, and Dick sighed, “Both.”

“It was reckless of you to go out tonight,” Bruce said.

“I’m not sorry.”

“I can see that.” He stared at Dick, then reached up and gently peeled off his mask so he could look Dick in the eyes. “I lost Jason. I don’t want to lose you, too.”

“You haven’t lost Jason,” Dick protested. It couldn’t be more obvious to him that Jason still loved Bruce. Otherwise, why would he be so hurt? “He just needs time.” Time and some more convincing that Tim wasn’t a threat to him, or the love Bruce had for him. Ideally from Bruce’s own mouth. Not Bruce’s greatest strength, but Dick trusted that he’d _try_.

Bruce let his hand drop, and said, “Even so. Will you tell me what happened?”

He swallowed hard and said, “Upstairs?”

Taking the babies was a production, of course, but they couldn’t leave the girls in the cave overnight. Instead, Bruce took them all to a seldom-used but warm sitting room, mercifully free of the staring, judgmental portraits that seldom-used rooms in the manor tended to accumulate. Morning sunlight streamed through the window, illuminating Bruce’s tired eyes all the better. Dick knew he probably didn’t look pretty as a picture either.

And in that room, safe and warm, with none of the trappings of Batman there, no breaks for Bruce to take notes for his file, it was slightly easier to start talking.

He couldn’t look Bruce in the eyes while he did. He kept his own firmly on the carpet. Dick had already told one person all the sordid details in the last day. It had been oddly relieving to tell Jason everything, but Bruce? He couldn’t look. He didn’t want to see Bruce’s reaction. He definitely couldn’t look at Amy and Bridget. Not right now.

He’d failed. He’d been too weak to stop Tarantula. He should have _done_ something.

“Jason only wanted to help you?” Bruce asked at one point of his narration.

Dick nodded. “I’m sure of it,” he said. He’d never expected Jason to be so angry on his behalf. As if he hadn’t been ashamed of himself enough already, Jason had stood up for him when Dick had been such a terrible brother to him. The least he could do in return was defend Jason to Bruce.

But Bruce didn’t comment further and just let Dick continue.

When he got up to the part where he’d stopped Jason from shooting Tarantula, he almost choked up. God, it was so _stupid._ Why was the guilt rushing up his throat? Should he have stopped Jason earlier? Was that why he felt so awful? Or did he feel bad for not letting Jason kill her? He didn’t know. He just didn’t know. It was all tangled up inside his head.

“Look at me,” Bruce said. “Dick. Look at me.”

Reluctantly, Dick did so. Bruce’s face was cool and stern and focused. No Brucie in that expression. No Batman. Just Dick’s second father.

He said, “I am proud of you.”

That just made it worse. He didn’t deserve that. Bruce’s honest pride. Not that. “Would you be proud of me if I’d stood aside? Are you proud of Jason?” If he wasn’t proud of Jason, how could he be proud of Dick?

“I am proud of Jason for putting aside his own hurt to help you. And even if I don’t agree with him or approve of many of his recent actions, I am proud that Jason will go so far to do what he thinks is right.” He sat straight and tall in his chair, and Dick couldn’t help but believe him at least a little. “If you had stood aside, I would still be proud of you for trying.”

Tears pricked at Dick’s eyes. “I should have done something,” he said aloud. “I should have fought back.”

“It wasn’t your fault,” Bruce said. “You did what you could, and when you couldn’t do any more, she took advantage of you. That was her choice. She took yours from you.”

“But I could have - _easily_ -“

“But nothing. It wasn’t your fault, and you shouldn’t blame yourself for getting through the experience any way you could.”

“All I had to do was roll over!” He could remember it so clearly, though with his fingers clenched on the upholstery of his sofa he wasn’t likely to get lost in the memory. Tarantula hadn’t been braced for any sort of sudden movement, all he would have had to do was twist his hips and shoulders -

“If it was too much, it was too much,” Bruce said, uncompromising. “Nothing that happened between you that night was your fault.”

Dick crumpled over his own legs, burying his hands in his hair, trying to focus on the pattern of the carpet. Just one little thing and he could have stopped it.

“I will say it as many times as I need to,” Bruce continued. His voice sounded very far away. When he reached out for Dick, Dick flinched away, and the offending hand withdrew slowly and carefully in Dick’s peripheral vision. “It was not your fault, Dick.”

He didn’t start crying. He’d already done that once this week. Instead he just sat there, hating himself, his eyes hot and itchy from the pressure of _not crying_. He didn’t want comfort. He didn’t deserve it. He should be in prison, not this warm comfortable room with his father telling him he wasn’t responsible and his daughters sleeping peacefully. He didn’t deserve Jason’s outrage on his behalf or Barbara’s apologies or Cass’ hugs.

“I don’t -“ he started. “None of this -“

Even though his voice petered out, Bruce knew him well enough to translate, because he said, “Is this something you think, is it something you feel, or a combination of both?”

He took a deep breath, tried to sort things out a bit inside, and said, “Feel. I know what she did to me. I _know_.” All that denial had come crashing down. Nothing matched up inside. The things he’d told rape victims as Robin, he couldn’t apply to himself. It didn’t feel like it fit in most places and he didn’t like where it did.

 _It wasn’t your fault._ If only he could believe that.

“It’s a start,” Bruce said. He hesitated, and said, “Thank you for protecting Jason. It’s…good…that you could get him to listen to you.”

“He only did it because he was treating me like a victim,” Dick said to the floor. It wasn’t true, he _knew_ , but it was easier to accept than the fact Jason had been honestly upset. So upset he’d stopped what he was doing and started demanding explanations and/or revenge. So upset he’d driven straight to Lockhaven intent on murder. “He’d have done the same for anyone else.”

And Dick had _stopped_ him.

“I hate her,” he said, looking up at Bruce again. “I hate her,” he said, louder. Bruce still didn’t flinch. “I wish she was _dead_!”

He didn’t wish he’d killed her, or that Jason had, he just wanted her gone. Like she’d never existed.

Tears filled his eyes as he watched and waited for Bruce to judge him. “I want her to go away,” he repeated. “I hate her so much.”

Bruce just shifted to sit next to him and said, “Say it as often as you need.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks everyone for your continuing wonderful responses! Next chapter will be up next week, getting close to the end here!
> 
>  
> 
> NEXT TIME:
> 
> Dressing almost wore him out, but Tim soldiered through. He’d been taught how. Even if this was a piddly sort of task. He went back down and was almost out the door when his dad asked, “Where are you going, Tim?”
> 
> Oh, that was right. He probably had to check in with his dad now. He’d never had to do that before. “I was going to tell Bruce I’m quitting,” he said.


	30. Replacement

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tim sorts things out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No particular warnings this chapter.

Tim woke up sometime late in the morning. It had been a long time since he’d slept that much of the night. To sleep most of the morning as well, he must have been wiped out and running only because of the stress. Probably had something to do with the blood loss.

He managed to cover his bandage enough to shower, which was good. Then he headed down to get something to eat. Dana smiled at him a bit awkwardly when he showed up, which he supposed was fair enough. She’d thought her stepson was a normal kid with normal concerns. She put a bowl of soup on to heat for him anyway, which was nice of her.

While he ate, Tim caught sight of the newspaper. Explosion at Arkham? He hadn’t even known. If he’d been out there…

He read the lines underneath the picture of the blasted-open walls. _Parties unknown_ were responsible? As if. This was the Red Hood’s work, Tim would bet. That said, he couldn’t rule out the Penguin or Two-Face. Wasn’t theatrical enough for the Joker. Tim turned the page and read that a seemingly random warehouse had also been blown up, the place where Batman had turned the Joker over to the GCPD, and Tim went back to his first hypothesis. This was the Red Hood’s work. Jason Todd.

Looked like he’d arranged some sort of confrontation. Tim wondered how Bruce had got them all out of there alive. And if it meant Jason would try to kill him again.

The feeling of not knowing was unfamiliar and queasy in his stomach. Even before he became Robin, if he had been out on the streets, he would have known about Arkham and the warehouse. Instead he slept through it all.

Tim went back upstairs and got ready to go out. He needed to know, and he also needed to tell Bruce that he was quitting in person. He owed Bruce that much. The thought of telling him, the way Bruce’s face would shut down, was almost unbearable. If he never wanted to speak to Tim again after this, he’d understand. It was not a good time to quit.

Or maybe it was the best, in some ways, Tim tried to remind himself. Jason was back. Bruce would be busy with Jason. Best for Tim to get out of the way.

Dressing almost wore him out, but Tim soldiered through. He’d been taught how. Even if this was a piddly sort of task. He went back down and was almost out the door when his dad asked, “Where are you going, Tim?”

Oh, that was right. He probably had to check in with his dad now. He’d never had to do that before. “I was going to tell Bruce I’m quitting,” he said.

“You can’t call?” his father asked.

“No,” Tim said. “I owe him better than that. I need to do this in person.”

His father frowned, while Tim waited patiently. Jack Drake didn’t hurt people on purpose. He’d agree. It was an uncomfortable minute of waiting in the door before his father said, “All right. I want you back by dinnertime, though. Sooner, if possible.”

No staying out for him. He’d be going straight home and not leaving again until the sun was up. How strange.

Tim headed out, trying to imagine coming back and not having to lie. It was…difficult. If anything, he’d be expected to provide a full account, and Tim wasn’t sure he could do that either. His dad just didn’t know enough.

Maybe that would change. He had to hope that it would change.

He headed to Wayne Manor’s front gate - _not_ how he usually approached - and hit the buzzer. “Master Timothy!” Alfred’s voice greeted him. “Come in, come in, you’re in no state to be standing around in such cold.”

He said that, but there was still the long driveway to negotiate. The snow had stopped, but frozen into an icy crust over everything. Tim definitely did not want to fall over. Ahead of him, Wayne Manor loomed as forbiddingly as its owner. It had never seemed that way before, not to him. He huddled in his jacket and tried to work out what he was going to say. No matter what he went over in his head, it didn’t sound right.

Alfred met him at the door and whisked him inside, where it was, in all honesty, still quite cold. Alfred didn’t believe in heating rooms that weren’t in use. Tim shivered as the butler divested him of his jacket. “There is cocoa in the kitchen,” Alfred said, “should you wish to make a detour there.”

He thought about it, and then said, “No, I need to speak to Bruce. Then my dad wants me to go home.”

“Very well. I shall bring the cocoa to you.”

Alfred-brand worry. It looked like Tim wasn’t getting out of here without being made to drink some cocoa. What a hardship. Tim even managed to crack a smile. “Is everyone all right?” Tim asked. Normally, he’d know already.

“Yes, Master Timothy,” Alfred said. “Master Bruce has some cuts and bruises, as he tends to acquire when he stands too close to explosions, and Miss Cassandra scraped an arm racing Master Richard back to the cave, but that is the extent of last night’s injuries.”

“Was it the Red Hood? Arkham and the warehouse?”

“It was indeed Master Jason’s work,” Alfred said. “I am not sure exactly why he refrained from causing serious injury at the last second, but he and Master Richard made an unexpected detour last night, and it seems as if they had a discussion of sorts. The details, such few as I am aware of, are not mine to share, I’m afraid.”

That was…something. Tim hoped it was a something that would stop his predecessor from trying to kill him again. “And the girls?”

“Asleep, as is their father. Miss Cassandra is currently unavailable.”

Darn. He’d been hoping to say hello while he was here. He didn’t know when he’d have the chance again. If he had to, he’d call, because he couldn’t bear not seeing Dick or Steph or Cass again. “Oh well,” he said. “It’s just Bruce I have to speak to.”

“He’s downstairs,” Alfred reported. “Shall I show you down?”

It made him sad to be treated just that little bit like a guest. “I know the way,” Tim said. Just this one more time he’d like to act like he belonged here.

 

—

 

Bruce was typing his reports from the previous night when Alfred hailed him on the intercom. “Master Timothy to see you, sir.”

Tim? Now? He had a bad feeling about this. Tim wasn’t well enough to be in the field, so he should be at home recovering. Combined with his father discovering everything, he doubted Tim’s presence boded well. “I’ll come up,” he said.

“He’s already on the way down,” Alfred said.

It was only a few minutes before he heard the lift from the study arrive, and Tim’s familiar footsteps approach. He’d come a long way since he started. He was _much_ quieter now, even without making an effort to be stealthy. “Hello, Bruce,” Tim said.

“Tim,” Bruce said. “You seem to be feeling better.”

“A bit.”

“Good.” Then, “what happened with your father?”

There was no point beating around the bush. This was what Tim was here to discuss. Otherwise he would have stayed home and called. They both knew it.

“He wants me to quit,” Tim said. “He said that if I didn’t, he’d call the police and turn you in. I agreed.”

It took Bruce a while to process that. Tim was…quitting? Tim? Quitting? That wasn’t like him. He stared, he knew he was staring, trying to find some sign in Tim’s face that this was a joke of some sort. It wasn’t the direction Tim’s humour usually ran in.

“It’s for the best,” Tim said, a fake and horrible smile on his face. “After all that training - I wasn’t getting _that_ much better at fighting, I wasn’t up to scratch -“

“I have no issues with your fighting ability,” Bruce said quietly. “Nor the pace at which you have been improving.”

“Don’t.” The face smile evaporated. “We both know that I’m not the athlete Dick is, or Cass. Or Jason. No matter how much I train I’m not going to be as good as they are.”

“I meant it,” Bruce said. He hadn’t told Jason this enough, when he was starting out. And even afterwards. He wished he had. “Not being as good as they are doesn’t mean you’re not good enough to do the job. In any case, you have other strengths, areas where _they_ will never be as good as _you_.”

“Stop,” Tim said. “This is hard enough already. I don’t want to quit, Bruce, but I’m not going to let my dad turn you in either. Steph will take over for me, she’s already agreed to it. You need a Robin. She’s got the right idea about it. She’s got more of a clue about all this than I did when I started -“

His voice broke off, and once again Bruce found himself not sure how to comfort someone. “I want you to stay on,” he said, “but if you feel you cannot, then I’ll accept it.”

Some of the tension slid off Tim’s face.

Bruce added, “Stephanie Brown, you said? I’ll think about it.”

The rest went. Bruce had said the right thing. For once. “I just want to know you’ll be all right,” Tim said. “Not like you were before. You need help out there, Bruce, and Nightwing and Batgirl like doing their own things too much. Steph can slot right in to the team.”

Jason. He couldn’t make the same mistake twice. On top of what he already knew about Tim’s childhood. “Stephanie will add to the team, if we come to an arrangement. None of you are…replaceable. You will still be welcome here, and I very much doubt that Dick will hear of you completely separating yourself from us.”

Tim looked around the cave as if it were the last time he’d ever see it. “Sure,” he said sadly. “Anyway. That’s all I came to say.”

“You’re more than welcome to stay for dinner,” Bruce said.

“No.” Tim shook his head. “No, I think I’d better not. My dad wants me - he wants me to go home.” The hitch in his voice was unmistakable. “Bye, Bruce.”

He left, not even stopping when Alfred brought down some cocoa. “His father leaned on him to resign, then,” Alfred said, and set the cocoa down by Bruce instead.

“You could call it that. ‘Threatened’ is probably the more accurate term. No threats against Tim himself,” Bruce hurried to assure Alfred, “against us. Tim said if he quit, his father would stay quiet.” He opened both Tim’s file and Stephanie Brown’s. So Tim thought she would be a good Robin, did he? Spoiler was not lacking in potential, that was for sure, and she already knew the most important secrets. He’d ask her, and if she said yes, they would try. She’d have to be trained further first.

Perhaps Tim could help with that himself. He had enough understanding of a detective’s methodology to teach someone else.

“And what do you plan to do about it, sir?”

“Right now? Nothing,” Bruce said.

But that night he paid Stephanie Brown a visit. According to Batgirl, she was still grounded, and sure enough, as he approached her apartment, she was still there. He didn’t go to her window. He was, essentially, a strange man, and he did not want to scare her, especially not like that. Instead he waited until she climbed out her window and headed to the roof, pleased to see that she was moving better today.

Once again it took her a while to notice him, and she jumped when she did. “Do you always do that?” she asked.

“Frequently,” Batman said.

“Yeah, figured.” But she did not seem terribly annoyed about it. “So Robin told you?”

“He did.”

“And?”

“He wanted you to take his place. He said you agreed.”

“Under two conditions,” Stephanie said, eyes flashing and chin set stubbornly. Batman had seen that sort of stubbornness before. “First, if my dad gets out of Blackgate, I want to go after him as Spoiler.”

That was not a request Bruce could deny. It was why he had Robin, rather than Batboy, and why he’d nearly lost Nightwing over partnering with a second Robin. He understood why Stephanie would want to pursue her father under the mask she’d created, should it come to that. “Agreed,” he said. “The other?”

Stephanie tilted her head up further. “The second Tim wants his job back, you give it to him. I won’t replace him. I’ll always have Spoiler.”

That was it? “Easily done,” Batman said. And something of a relief. Replacing Robins had caused a good deal of trouble. It was good to have the matter sorted out beforehand.

“Great!” Stephanie grinned. “When do you want me at the Batcave? I’m grounded until next week, by the way.”

He tossed her a communicator. “There’ll be training first. We need to learn to work together. This will give you access to the subbasement in Wayne Tower, by service elevator D. It should be easier for you to get to than the Cave.” He’d be doing far more driving to work with this Robin. But easier for him to travel than her. “We can start as soon as you’re finished with your grounding.”

Batman grappled off the rooftop, to a cheerful Robin call of “See you then, boss!”

 

—

 

Now that he was the one trying it, Dick was impressed that Tim hadn’t been caught sneaking into or out of his house before. The Drakes had a _lot_ of empty lawn. Nevertheless, he got across without incident and climbed up to the window he was pretty sure belonged to Tim. He peeked in to confirm before knocking.

Tim was awake, and even in the moonlight he looked a better colour than he had been when Dick had last seen him. “What are you doing here?” he hissed.

“Heard I missed you earlier,” Dick said. “Can I come in? These shoes aren’t great for climbing.”

Tim opened the window and grabbed the chair from the desk as Dick slipped silently through.

“So,” Dick said, settling down arms over the chair’s back rather than the right way around, “you quit?”

“I made a deal,” Tim corrected him. “Not so bad a deal either.”

“It’s not what you want, though.” It wasn’t hard to see how much happier and livelier and more confident Tim was as Robin. The kid who had come and asked Dick to be Robin again had been brave, yes, but not happy. He’d _thrived_ on Robin.

“I can live with that.”

And then, sometimes Tim reminded him very much of Bruce. All this cool talk of deals, Tim turning his face to the shadows - it was to hide. Bruce had said that Tim was nearly in tears when he delivered the news. How could Dick just leave Tim like that?

That said, he only had another half hour before he had to be back with his girls, but that was enough time to check on Tim at least, and Tim would understand. “You don’t have to run away from the manor ‘cause of it,” Dick said. “Cass and I still want to be there for you. I know _I_ was serious about Amy and Bridget having an Uncle Timmy.”

“You don’t have to,” Tim said. “Since Jason’s back -“

“Not you too,” Dick sighed. This nonsense had to stop. “He said pretty much the same thing last night. You can _both_ be uncles. As far as I’m concerned the more uncles they have, the better. And aunts too, of course.”

Tim frowned. “You talked to him? You didn’t fight with him? Alfred said you two went on a ‘detour,’ whatever that means.”

“We didn’t get as far as fighting,” Dick said. He didn’t want to talk about the detour. Not with Tim, not when he needed to make sure Tim was okay. This wasn’t about _him_. “But he listened to me for a bit, and agreed to meet me somewhere neutral.”

“Is he going to try to kill me again?” Tim asked.

“I hope not,” Dick said. “I think it’s…less likely than it might have been earlier. But I think it depends on what Bruce says to him next. They talked, too, but it didn’t go so well.”

“There _was_ that report about a warehouse exploding,” Tim said, voice dry. “That’s not usually the hallmark of successful negotiations.”

“True.” He made himself smile. “But Jason could have killed Bruce _and_ the Joker, and he didn’t.”

“He just blew up the warehouse.”

“He just blew up the warehouse,” Dick agreed. He’d take improvement where he found it.

Tim just looked at him somewhat sceptically, before sighing and shaking his head. “Will he go after Steph?” he asked. “Now that she’s going to be Robin?”

Dick blinked. First he’d heard of it. Tim of course noticed and hastily asked, “You don’t mind, do you? I thought - she’d be good, you know? She’ll be able to keep B in line. It’s just, we agreed, Batman needs a Robin, so -“

“It’s fine, Tim,” Dick said. “I don’t mind. You’re Robin; you can choose. At least, you should have a say in who gets the uniform after you.” He hadn’t and wished he had - but if he was going to change things with Jason, Dick couldn’t afford to be an angry, jealous kid. He wished he’d been mature enough then to do what Tim was doing now. “If he goes after Steph I’ll have another word with him. Or more if necessary. In the meantime, you and Cass and I can help B train her, for when B forgets what it’s like not to be six foot two and built like a truck.”

That was exaggerating things. For a big guy who’d learned to fight after he got big, Bruce was surprisingly good at teaching smaller people to fight. He did sometimes forget other things. Like positive reinforcement.

“But my father,” Tim said.

“In the afternoons?” Dick asked. “Even if you don’t want to help out anymore, I’ll still want to see you. You’re my brother.”

Tim’s face crumpled. “I don’t want to quit,” he said quietly.

Dick held his arms out for a hug, like Bruce and Cass had done for him. And like he had done, Tim accepted the hug, too miserable to even return it properly, just nestling into Dick’s arms. “I know,” Dick said. “We’ll work something out. We’re not going to leave you alone, I promise, even if you’re not going into the field.”

They sat like that for a few minutes, before Dick said, “I hate to have to do this, but I have to go. Dad stuff. You going to be all right? I can call when I get back, or I can see if Cass can drop by.”

With a slight sniffle, Tim disengaged. “I get it,” he said. “I’ll be fine. You go look after your daughters.”

“But I’ll see you soon, right Timmy?” Dick pressed.

Tim hesitated, but said, “All right.”

“Great!” Heart lightened, Dick headed back out the window.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I cannot believe that there are only two chapters left. Thanks everyone, so much, for all your comments, kudos, and bookmarks. Next chapter will be up next week!
> 
>  
> 
> NEXT TIME:
> 
> “I’ll be fine, Bruce. I’ve lived on my own before.” He stopped himself, realising that he wasn’t on his own. “I thought you were an overprotective dad, grandpa.”
> 
> Bruce frowned. “Just cautious,” he said.


	31. Moving Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A change in circumstances.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No particular warnings this chapter.

While Steph trained, Tim sat on the sidelines with Cass, catching up on what he’d been missing. “It’s been quiet,” Cass said. “Arkham is secure. There are lots of guards.”

“How was fighting Poison Ivy? I read about it in the papers.”

“So did I!” Steph called, kata faltering slightly with the distraction. “It looked way awesome!”

“Concentrate,” Cass said severely, but she was smiling as she issued the correction. To Tim she said, “Very difficult. She is very powerful and very clever. Without Batman’s help I am not sure I could have won.”

“At least he lets you fight her,” Tim pointed out. “He _hates_ letting me go up against her or Mr Freeze, almost as much as the Joker.” Then he remembered, and corrected himself. “Hated. He hated letting me do that.”

Cass smiled consolingly. “It won’t be forever,” she said. “You will go out into the field again one day.”

Maybe. It was hard to believe that right now, especially since it was all he could do to sneak out to spend the afternoon with Cass, Steph, and Dick. They’d helped Dick move a few of his things into the penthouse. Then he and the girls had headed down to the bunker, so the babies could sleep undisturbed and they could get some training in. Or some of them could get some training in; Tim’s father would probably notice if Tim came home winded and bruised from sparring with Cass.

Anyway, this was his chance to ask. Cass would tell him if she knew. “Do you know what the deal is with Dick at the moment? I haven’t seen anything about Nightwing in the news, and he doesn’t seem to be injured…”

“He _is_ injured,” Cass said. She tapped Tim’s chest, then his head. “Inside. His business.”

“But you know.”

“I overheard. He didn’t tell me. Pretending I hadn’t heard wouldn’t help. If you want to know, ask him. He may tell. He may not.”

“Does it have anything to do with the ‘detour’ I heard about?” Tim asked. Alfred said it wasn’t his to share, Cass said this was Dick’s business…Tim was both curious and concerned. “I notice the Red Hood hasn’t been in the news either.” Nor had he heard anything on the police frequency of the radio he was also hiding from his father.

Cass said, “I think so, but I do not know him. He was…jealous and afraid. Dick was trying to reassure him.”

It was hard to think of the red-helmeted, sneering man who’d cut his throat as _jealous and afraid_. Especially since it wasn’t hard to reason out that a good deal of that jealousy would have been directed at him. How wrongheaded. Bruce had only taken Tim on sufferance. He would have preferred never to have another Robin. “You didn’t leave out ‘angry’?”

“I did,” Cass said. “But he wasn’t so angry when I saw him. Not at you or Dick or Bruce anyway.”

“Good signs,” Steph called over. She was doing handstand push-ups now. Tim remembered that part of training, quite convinced that Dick was the only person who had ever enjoyed it. And from what little Tim had overheard of Bruce talking to Steph, he’d been adamant that she build up her upper body strength more and improve her balance. She’d be doing many, many handstand push-ups. “Think he might leave me alone?”

“Dick said he’d make sure of it,” Tim said. “He’ll start with a stern talking-to and work his way up from there.” Maybe he sounded a bit cynical, but then again his throat was still healing. He figured he had the right.

“Sweet,” Steph said. He envied how casual she was about it.

Cass turned to Tim and said, “It’s five.”

Time to start heading back. It was the first time he had snuck out like this, just for the afternoon, intending to go back home for dinner and a night in. “I better get going, then,” Tim said regretfully. “I’ll just say goodbye to Dick first. See you later.”

“Bye, Tim,” Cass said, with a slightly strained upside-down echo from Steph.

Tim took the elevator up to the penthouse, because of course Bruce had ensured the penthouse and the bunker shared access. Not for the first time, he wondered just what Bruce told the engineers and architects. He walked through the central living room in search of Dick. Bright, slightly worn blankets were draped casually over severe, expensive leather furniture; the pink-and-yellow contents of a clothing bag had been spilled across a dark hardwood table for easier folding and sorting. Dick himself was in the restaurant-quality kitchen, stocking pantry shelves with his favourite sugary cereal.

For a second Tim thought he could see lines of stress in Dick’s face, but then Dick noticed he was there and smiled. “You headed home?”

“Uh-huh,” Tim said.

“Sorry I haven’t been such a great host today,” Dick said.

“You’re still moving,” Tim said. “I get it.” He did. Dick had to think of his daughters first, and other things had to take less of a priority. Tim could look after himself well enough. And Tim just had to keep telling himself that when he felt the prickle of jealousy over not having Dick’s undivided attention. That was normal, right?

It was good to see Dick smiling more again, but Tim couldn’t help noticing that smile was starting to look a little tired, especially around the corners. “I don’t think I’ve thanked you yet,” he said.

“For what?”

“The last two weeks or so. You and Alfred both. With all the drama, you’ve been great, even when you’ve had your own stuff to deal with. So, thank you. It means a lot to me.”

 _I don’t like seeing you hurt. It was scary. You’re not supposed to be out of control._ Each response seemed too honest, childish, embarrassing. Instead, he asked, “Is everything really all right?”

Immediately, the smile faded. “Why do you ask?”

“Everything,” Tim said. “Bruce is acting like you’re hurt. You still haven’t gone out on a real patrol and you’re not planning to. Alfred and Cass both said something’s up, that you’re _injured_ , but it’s up to you to tell me. Something’s wrong.”

Dick sighed. “Yeah, I’m in no shape to patrol. Panic attacks. No street work for me until I can get the issue under control. It’s not the sort of thing that I want to talk about when you’re already on your way out the door.” He must have seen something in Tim’s expression, because he added, “I _will_ tell you. Just not now. It’s not fair if you’re the only one who doesn’t know.”

The only one who didn’t know. Jason must know, because of that ‘detour’ Alfred had mentioned. Tim tried not to feel left out, since Dick had literally just said he’d tell. He didn’t have a right to know Dick’s problems, especially now he’d quit Robin.

And if he didn’t know, he couldn’t help. He couldn’t even do _that_.

“Tim. I _will_. When we have the time to sit down and discuss it properly. You’re still a part of the family. You still get to know whether Nightwing’s field-ready or not.”

When they had time. Tim’s father was expecting him back before seven at the latest. It’d mean skipping dinner, or getting something on his way home, but - but this was Dick. Dick had been there for him more in the past year than his father had in five, and now Dick could use all the help he could get. Dick needed him more than his father did.

“I have time,” Tim said.

 

—

 

While Bruce was pleased to hear that Tim had visited, following his exit out of the building on the cameras, he was less pleased to see how distressed he was upon leaving. He’d been talking to Dick, and from how upset Tim seemed, Bruce could take a guess at what had happened.

He would have to make the time to speak to him later.

Bruce checked briefly on Cass and Stephanie, nearly finished with their day’s training. His initial impression was that, much like Tim, she was not a natural athlete on par with previous Robins, but she was every bit as eager to learn as Tim and took criticism better than any of them. With that attitude she would improve quickly.

But he had come here as much to check on Dick as to check on Stephanie. Alfred had made a quick trip to Bludhaven to pick up a few more of Dick’s things; now Bruce was dropping them off. Photographs, mostly, irreplaceable things that had gone temporarily neglected when Dick had swept through his apartment grabbing practical items such as clothing, bedding, and Nightwing’s gear. He’d also spent the better part of a day examining the security at the penthouse and setting the protocols to his own preferences.

It was a very great relief to see Dick taking some initiative and asserting himself again. He was exhausted and stressed, as was the lot of every new parent, but nevertheless managing far better than he had been the week before.

After years of the penthouse being his, it was a little strange to have to ask Dick to buzz him up. Giving up the apartment was nothing if it meant Dick would stay in Gotham for the moment.

He found Dick rearranging the furniture. Another good sign. “You’ll get better views if you turn that armchair eighty degrees clockwise and move it back three feet,” he suggested.

“I thought of that,” Dick said, “but it kind of ruins the set-up for if I have more than one person over here at a time, and I don’t want to be dragging the chair back and forth and scratching the floor. Might end up moving a rug over here.”

Bruce hated rugs. They rucked up, got in the way, and most of those he’d seen were incredibly ugly. Terrible tripping hazard too. But this wasn’t his house anymore.

“I brought some more of your things,” Bruce said. “Or Alfred did, anyway, I’m just bringing them up.”

“You didn’t have to. Thank Alfred for me too, will you?”

“I know, and of course. I just wanted to check on you.” The look on Dick’s face as he sorted through the box made the trip more than worth the hassle. The framed picture of Dick and his parents was quickly placed on a shelf, followed by a picture of Dick and Bruce himself.

“I’ll be fine, Bruce. I’ve lived on my own before.” He stopped himself, realising that he _wasn’t_ on his own. “I thought you were an overprotective _dad_ , grandpa.”

Bruce frowned. “Just cautious,” he said.

“Overprotective grandpa,” Dick repeated, with a smile to show he didn’t mind that much. “I’d invite you to stay for dinner, but I have other plans, sorry.”

With Wally, most likely, since he knew Dick had finally told his friend the news. Maybe Roy Harper. Or perhaps even Barbara. He knew they’d been trying to find a good time to meet and talk things over properly; neither of them wanted to talk in the Manor, and Dick hadn’t wanted to go to Barbara’s for that discussion. Now that Dick was in the penthouse, they might have worked that first issue out. No matter who Dick had plans with, it was another one of those good signs. “I understand. I know you weren’t expecting me.”

Dick’s smile didn’t fade as he said, “I’ll call if I need you. Honest.”

“You’ve been better the last week,” he said. And even though Bruce worried constantly, the best way for Dick to get better was for him to live in his own place. “May I see Amy and Bridget before I go?”

“The real objective!” But he shrugged. “Sure, just try not to wake them up. They’ve had a busy day with the move.”

What had once been a spare bedroom had been hastily converted into a nursery. The decor was still decidedly adult and austere. The mobiles Bruce had bought had been strung up, and the whole arrangement looked somewhat out of place. But Dick had decided that for the meantime, the girls would be in his room with him. Bruce could understand the decision. Less distance to travel when the girls inevitably interrupted his sleep. Or for when his sleep was interrupted and he wanted to make sure they were all right. Right now, though, the babies were indeed sleeping peacefully. 

They were starting to look noticeably bigger, now, after a little more than two weeks of life. He still couldn’t believe how small they were. He touched Amy’s tiny fist, very gently, and pulled Bridget’s blanket down to cover her feet. Then he left as quietly as he’d come in. “Thank you,” he said to Dick.

“No problem. Thanks again for bringing around that stuff. Makes it feel more like home.”

Bruce left, feeling quite happy with how things had gone. After a quick stop by the bunker, he headed up to the car park to where Alfred would be waiting for him.

As soon as he stepped out of the elevator, he felt hostile eyes on him. Bruce cast around, searching for whoever was watching him. He stopped in a shadowy corner, where a bulky young man was standing. A tall, dark-haired young man, who turned away as soon as he saw Bruce had spotted him.

“Jason?” Bruce asked, hardly able to believe it. “Jason, is that you?”

The man cursed, but that didn’t deter Bruce at all. Instead, he drew closer. “Jason, wait. Please.”

Jason stopped.

Bruce took another step, finally getting an angle where he could see Jason’s face properly. Until a week ago, he’d never thought he’d see that face again. Jason had grown up handsome, puppy fat melting away to reveal a sharp jaw and high cheekbones. His blue eyes had dark shadows under them, and he did look haggard and tired. He must not have been sleeping.

“You’ve got thirty seconds, old man,” Jason said. “Dickface promised me that you wouldn’t be here.”

“He didn’t know I’d be coming by,” Bruce said. Dick’s plans were with _Jason_? That was - better than he could have hoped for. “I was just leaving. Don’t cancel your arrangements on my account.”

Jason glared at him suspiciously. He looked ready to bolt. Bruce did not want that, especially not if this was something Dick had set up, promising Jason he’d be able to come and go without scrutiny.

“You can ask Alfred if you like,” Bruce offered. “He’ll be here in a minute.”

That worked. Jason hesitated. He knew Alfred wouldn’t lie to him. He still trusted someone who lived in Wayne Manor, at least. “All right. But if I find out you set this up, I’m leaving, and _you_ can explain to the Golden Boy.”

“I did not set this up. Dick hasn’t breathed a word. I was just fortunate.”

“Fortunate?” Jason hissed. “Fortunate how?”

“To get to see you,” Bruce said. “Believe it or not, I _am_ glad you’re alive again. I’m sorry I didn’t learn about it earlier. Was it Ra’s?”

“Talia.”

“I see. The Lazarus Pit -“

“I’m handling it,” Jason said harshly. “Don’t you go thinking that I didn’t choose to do everything I did. Those were my decisions. Mine. I don’t want you making excuses for me.”

He hadn’t truly expected anything else. “I don’t want to waste time talking business,” Bruce said. He still didn’t think he could hand Jason over to the GCPD. “Are you well, Jason?” _Are you sleeping enough? Eating enough? Are you turning the heater on at night?_ He and Alfred had never broken Jason of the habit of simply enduring the cold.

“What’s it to you?”

Bruce tried to keep calm. “You’re my son,” he said. “Of course I want to know that you’re well.”

After a short pause, assessing whether Bruce meant it if he was any judge, Jason said, “Fine.”

“Good,” Bruce said, and meant it. He was about to say something else when they heard the familiar sound of Alfred’s preferred car approaching. The headlights flashed over them, and then the brakes squealed as Alfred hit them as hard as he would for an accident. The butler climbed out of the vehicle with the closest to undignified haste as Bruce had ever seen from him. He didn’t park, didn’t even turn the motor off, just rushed towards Jason.

He stopped short, though, and visibly restrained himself from hugging Jason. “Master Jason,” he said instead, eyes shining with unshed tears. “It is so very good to see you alive and well.”

“Hi, Alfred,” Jason said. “’S good to see you too.”

“Oh my. Do forgive my lack of decorum, dear boy.” Alfred did reach out then, dusting off Jason’s coat shoulders and picking out a loose thread. “I’m quite overwhelmed. If I had ever expected - well, that’s water under the bridge. I would have brought you some food, at least. You look rather peaky, if you’ll forgive me saying so.”

“I’m fine,” Jason said, rather than half-growled. Bruce was torn between gratitude that _someone_ knew how to deal with Jason so well, and a pang of jealousy that it wasn’t him.

Alfred kept going, and Bruce bit his tongue. This was more important than jealousy. “Now, what brings you here tonight?” Alfred asked.

Jason shot a glare at Bruce. “Dick promised me I could meet his daughters,” he said, as if daring them to stop him.

“An excellent idea,” Alfred said.

“I agree,” added Bruce.

Jason stared at them both. “What is _wrong_ with you all?” he demanded. “I cut that kid’s throat, and you’re all fine with me visiting babies?”

“We hardly think you’re going to hurt them,” Alfred said. “Excuse me momentarily. I cannot leave the car here.”

While Alfred did that, Bruce said to Jason, “I remember how much you cared about children. I have never for an instant believed you would hurt Dick’s. Tim said as much to me as well. _After_ your second encounter.”

Jason cursed and turned away. “Are _both_ of them perfect, then?” he demanded. “Dick stopped me killing that rapist, the replacement defends me - I’m _not_ forgiving the Joker. I want him dead.”

“I understand,” Bruce said. _I just want her gone_ , Dick’s voice whispered in the back of his mind. “I wouldn’t ask it of you. Hating him - hating him doesn’t make you any less in my eyes.” Even after the practice he’d had with Dick in recent days, making this sort of admission hurt. He didn’t know why. It felt like dredging his soul. “I’m sorry I can’t do what you want.”

“Why not?” Jason asked. His eyes bored into Bruce’s. He was listening. No ultimatums, no blowing up warehouses, no danger. He was giving Bruce a chance.

He…he should be honest. Even, no, _especially_ now. He owed it to Jason. “If I killed him,” Bruce said, “no matter how good the reason why, I’d find a reason to kill someone else. It might not be true for you. I hope it isn’t. But it’s true for me. I know myself well enough to know that. Sooner or later I’d kill again, for a reason not as good, and then a third for a weaker reason still, and so forth. It didn’t stop me trying to kill him, in the weeks after your death, but Clark - he stopped me. We’ve had this conversation too. He told me that if you were alive, if you knew, you wouldn’t want me to go down that path.”

It sounded inadequate, with Jason in front of him again. Vague, self-centred philosophy against a living, angry son. Yet at the same time, he knew it was true. He’d never be able to justify not killing, not after that, not to his own satisfaction. He steeled himself and asked, “Should I have believed him?”

Jason was silent for a long time. Alfred had definitely parked by now. Tactful as ever, he must be staying clear while they worked this out for themselves. The tension dragged out for what seemed like minutes, the underground carpark almost unbearably claustrophobic.

“Yes,” Jason said at last. “Fuck. If that’s - _shit_. Yes, you should have believed him.”

Bruce breathed a sigh of relief. “Thank you. That’s…good to know.”

“What would you have done if I said no?” Jason asked. He still looked hostile. Wary. As if he expected Bruce to snap.

“I’m not sure,” Bruce said. “But don’t let me keep you, especially not from meeting Amy and Bridget. I’m glad to have had this conversation, Jason.” He backed off, feeling wrung out, and got into the car where Alfred was waiting. As they pulled out, Jason stayed precisely where he was to watch them go, moving only to lift a hand and acknowledge Alfred's departure.

Once they were clear, Jason out of sight even in the car's mirrors, Alfred asked, "Any progress?"

“I think so,” Bruce said.

 

—

 

Fuck Bruce and his drama anyway.

Without the Lazarus green in his head all the time, it was constantly harder to tell what he actually wanted. He was still mad at Bruce. Who wouldn’t be? Bruce had replaced him before Jason’s body was even cold. But he wasn’t sure anymore that he wanted to destroy Bruce entirely.

 _It wouldn’t fix anything, not for him_ , Dick had said.

He’d just have to kill the clown himself, he supposed. And then he’d stop, because again, fuck Bruce and his drama. Getting all worked up like that over one itty bitty totally justified murder. That’d show him.

He decided against taking the stairs. The idea of walking through Bruce’s building on camera did not appeal. Instead he made the challenging climb up the side, a process that meant some truly shoulder-straining feats of grappling. Maybe it wasn’t the smartest idea if the elevator was an option, but Dick had said the rooftop, not knock on the front door (so to speak). Grappling up was all the stupider because it was bitterly cold out, the sort of cold you only got on perfectly clear nights. If he took his gloves off, his hands would go numb almost instantly.

Jason landed ungainly on the penthouse roof. Those steep upwards grapples never looked good when you landed, not unless you had a long cape or were Dick Grayson. Even so he was glad nobody was around to see that - 

\- or, speak of the devil.

Dick was standing not too far away and just off to Jason’s right, waiting by a plain door. “You missed the balcony,” he said.

“Shut up, it’s been a while since I hit the rooftops in skyscraper town.”

“I’m glad you came,” Dick said. “The girls are inside. I hadn’t figured it’d be this cold. You want to come in?”

Jason hesitated. “All right,” he said. Dick wouldn’t set a trap for him like this. Besides, it wasn’t like he could insist Dick brought his girls out here. They were still very small (he assumed) and it _was_ cold out.

Dick smiled and showed him in. It was easier than Jason thought to follow him. It almost didn’t feel like walking into one of Bruce’s spaces at all, he’d dumped so much crap all over the place, and most of it colourful. “In here,” Dick said.

It was Dick’s room, but there were cribs along the near wall. Inside each crib - 

“Hey, baby girls,” Dick cooed. “You two awake? Someone important’s here to see you.”

Jason was just about to say _don’t overdo it, jackass_ , when Dick all but thrust a baby upon him. It, she, was indeed very small. Also very soft and kind of pink. She blinked up at him with baby blue eyes and dribbled a bit. His niece. One of them, anyway.

“That’s Bridget,” Dick said. When Jason turned, careful not to jar the baby in his arms, he saw Dick was holding the second niece. Also small, also pink (except for the yellow she was dressed in), also blinking. “And this is Amy. Girls, this is your Uncle Jason.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't believe how close I am to the end. Thanks everyone. So much. Final chapter will be up next week.
> 
>  
> 
> NEXT TIME:
> 
> They let him have a private visitation room, under the circumstances. Of course, there was still glass between Dick and the empty chair across from him, which he was extremely grateful for. He took a few deep breaths while he waited. The more calm he could find, the better.
> 
> It was five minutes before the door on the other side opened and Catalina walked in.


	32. Family's For

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, this is it. The final chapter. Mind the tags.

They let him have a private visitation room, under the circumstances. Of course, there was still glass between Dick and the empty chair across from him, which he was extremely grateful for. He took a few deep breaths while he waited. The more calm he could find, the better.

It was five minutes before the door on the other side opened and Catalina walked in.

Straight away, she froze, and said, “You.”

“Me,” Dick said. Calm. It wasn’t stupid to be afraid of her. Feeling afraid of her was a natural response. He had to focus on the glass between them and remind himself that what happened before would not happen again. He was safe, and he could get through this conversation because it was what his daughters needed. “We need to talk.”

“This better not be about this _rape_ nonsense,” Catalina said as she sat down across from him.

“I told you not to touch me,” Dick said. “You didn’t listen. But I’m not going to press charges. It’s not worth it. I came to talk about Amy and Bridget.”

She narrowed her eyes. “I’m listening.”

“I want you to give up your parental rights to them,” he said.

“Never,” Catalina snapped. “How dare you? I’ve had them nine times longer than you have. I protected them, in this godforsaken place. They’re mine.”

Dick’s heart pounded. He forced his breathing to remain steady. It was very, very difficult. “You knew you’d have to give them to someone once they were born,” he said. “You’re in here for life, no parole. You’re never going to really be their mother. They shouldn’t be here, not ever. I’m asking you to let them go.”

Catalina glared and tossed her head. Dick shuddered; he couldn’t stop himself. “You know why I chose to keep them?” she asked.

“No.” He’d tried not to think about it too much, actually.

“Because _I_ want children,” she said. “You think I’m ever going to have another chance? I want them, Grayson, even if I can only see them twice a year. You can threaten me with your _family_ all you like. It seems to me I’ve got the leverage.”

Her eyes were like daggers. He’d told Bruce that she wouldn’t agree. Catalina didn’t respect diplomacy, and she wouldn’t believe death threats from them either. They had to find something else. Leverage of their own. “You think you’ll tell someone that I’m Nightwing?” he asked. “Do you think you’re the first person who’s tried? We’ve got alibis and explanations for everything. Going back _years_.” It was true - but not a certain counter-measure. Dick didn’t want to risk it unless he had to.

“You just confessed,” she pointed out triumphantly. “Everything in here is under surveillance.”

“They’re watching a loop,” Dick said. It was thanks to Babs, but he wasn’t going to tell Catalina that. “We’re in private.”

“Are you going to set your _family_ on me? Like that friend of yours said?”

“My brother,” Dick said. “And no. I’ve asked them not to. Nobody’s going to lay a finger on you. But if you don’t give up parental rights, we’ll fight for them legally. I don’t want Amy and Bridget to have anything to do with you, and I want it all above board. Unimpeachable. We’ll get it, and even if you see them two or three times before we’re done in court, you’ll never see them again after that if we do it that way.

“You’re never getting out. You killed a cop. But I know who else you’ve killed.” Oracle, Batman, and even Tim had been working hard to get him that information, plus evidence. “My contacts in the police would take my word for it.”

“You wouldn’t,” Catalina sneered at him. “The gangs would come after me, and that would be a death sentence. You don’t do that.”

“If I ever found out about a plot on your life, I’d do something to stop it,” he agreed. He wouldn’t like it, but he’d do it. “But what I don’t mind is adding some life sentences to the one you’re already serving. Putting you in solitary. Give up your rights, and I won’t implicate you for anything else as Nightwing or Richard Grayson. And once they’re old enough to understand, I’ll let the girls choose if they want to see you. That’s all I had to say. Take it or leave it.”

He didn’t like this deal. Bruce hadn’t liked this deal. _Nobody_ had liked this deal. He almost hoped she’d say no. Dick knew his own priorities, though: protecting his daughters and protecting his family’s identities. Those things both mattered far more to him than making Catalina suffer, or even than getting her into court for what she’d done to him. So he’d decided to offer the only thing he could, and threaten the only person that mattered to her. Catalina herself.

He counted off the seconds in his head. If this didn’t work -

After ten seconds, he moved to get up. Last chance.

“Fine,” she spat. “You already put me in here, what’s taking my children too?”

“They’re mine as well, and I’m going to do what’s best for them,” he said. “The lawyers will be over tomorrow with some things for you to sign. The sooner this is sorted out the better.”

He turned on his heel. A goodbye was more than he could manage, much less a thank you. This would have been a lot easier if he’d let Jason kill her, but if he had, the guilt would have crushed him.

Dick made it all the way out of Lockhaven and to the car, but once he saw Alfred waiting for him, he crumpled. Without further ado, Alfred hustled him into the front seat and handed him a thermos of green tea. “Drink, Master Richard,” Alfred said. When Dick did, then he passed over a salad sandwich wrapped in paper. “And now eat.”

“You hate it when people eat in the car,” Dick said.

“Vacuuming will solve the issue of crumbs. Would that your own problems could be solved as easily. Eat. It will help you feel better.”

Alfred was right, too. When he’d finished the sandwich, Dick did feel a little better. “Give me a second,” he said, “I promised Dr Kennedy that I’d let her know how I was feeling when I finished here. We talked about it last week.”

“By all means.”

Dick opened his phone. There was already a message on it, from Babs, wishing him luck. He didn’t have it in him to reply straight away. Instead, he just texted his psychiatrist that he’d handled the meeting better than expected and confirmed their appointment for the next day. When that was done, he turned to Alfred and said, “She agreed. I won’t trust it until the lawyers do their thing, but she agreed.”

“Excellent,” Alfred said. “Now, shall we depart this ghastly place?”

“Floor it, Alfie.”

And to his surprise, Alfred actually did. They peeled out of Lockhaven, tires screaming.

On the way back, Dick managed to call Bruce, too, and ask him if he could deal with the lawyers. He’d handled just about everything he could today. Bruce, recognising the signs by now, agreed. That left just him and Alfred on the companionable trip back to Gotham. “Thanks for giving me a lift,” Dick said, as they pulled up at the tower. He still couldn’t quite associate the building with ‘home.’

“Nobody would ever have allowed you to make this trip entirely alone,” Alfred said calmly. “It’s been no great inconvenience to myself, for a much greater benefit. If you’ll forgive the presumption, I have also packed some soup for your dinner this evening. Please do make sure you eat it.”

“Yes, Alfred.”

“And we shall have the pleasure of your company, and that of your daughters, in the Manor in two days.”

“Yes, Alfred.”

The butler looked at him approvingly. “You are doing a most excellent job with all this, Master Richard, and it is wonderful to see you coping better. I will see you in two days, and you had best go rescue your babysitter.”

He knew. “I’ll do that,” Dick said.

“If you would ensure Master Jason makes it out of the building undetected by any authorities, that would be best. Please do assure him that the invitation to dinner applies to him as well.”

“I don’t think he’ll accept,” Dick said sadly. Jason agreed to babysit readily enough, but he refused to talk about Bruce, and even the Red Hood had been studiously avoiding Batman’s patrol routes.

“Nor do I,” said Alfred, “But it is nevertheless important that he is invited.”

“I’ll tell him,” Dick promised. As much as he wanted Jason to come home properly, he knew it wouldn’t do any good to push him. Jason would work it out in his own time. “Thanks again, Alfred.”

“My pleasure, dear boy.”

Dick took the food Alfred had so kindly made for him and headed up to the penthouse. Jason had been with his girls all morning. He deserved a break by now. Then he had a few chores around the house to do, then Tim would visit after school, and after that, Bruce had asked him to help train Steph with Cass - he suspected a conspiracy to keep him busy today, actually. He didn’t mind.

The elevator door opened, and the first thing he heard was Jason hissing “You make me _sick_.”

“Jason?” Dick called, hurrying towards the kitchen. As soon as he rounded the corner, though, he saw the problem. “Tim!”

Both Dick’s brothers were in his kitchen, staring each other down over the breakfast bar. Jason had Bridget in his arms, and a spilled bottle of formula lay between them. Even though he could see the hostility in Jason’s eyes, and the wariness on Tim’s face, it didn’t look as if there’d been any violence.

“Hi, Dick,” Tim said, voice strained. “Sorry I’m early.”

Jason glared at them both. “Did he tell you he’d quit being Robin?” he demanded.

“Yes,” Dick said, stepping forward to see Amy. He’d rather leave Jason holding Bridget, since while he held Bridget, he couldn’t hurt Tim. “His father asked him to quit, so he did.” Amy seemed fine. She smiled a baby smile at him. Dick couldn’t help but smile back, some of the tension in his stomach that he’d been carrying around since the sight of Lockhaven dissolving.

“He found a replacement!”

“Did you ask him why?” 

From the look on Jason’s face, Dick’s bet was _no_. He turned to Tim, and asked roughly, “Why?”

Tim’s jaw set stubbornly, and Dick was reminded of Tim’s deportment the first time they’d met, right down to the quickly-stilled nervous shaking of his hands. “Batman needs a Robin,” Tim said. “It doesn’t have to be me, but he does need someone.”

Jason glared. “He doesn’t deserve it. He just throws us into the meat grinder -”

“I made him take me,” Tim interrupted. “It’s not like I didn’t know what happened. I’ve been watching Batman and Robin for a long time. Don’t you get it? Bruce was going to get himself killed. So I did something about it. I’m not sorry I did. It was never about replacing you. I couldn’t if I tried - or wanted to.” He turned to Dick. “I think I’d better leave.”

“No,” Dick said. “Tim, you’re always welcome here.”

A snort from Jason. “Then _I’d_ better leave.”

“You either,” Dick said. “You’re _both_ welcome in my home, and I don’t want either of you feeling forced to leave.”

“Save it,” Jason said. He handed Bridget over, very carefully. It would take a lot more than an uncomfortable conversation with Tim to treat the girls with anything less than the utmost care. It was why Dick trusted Jason to babysit. “I know when I’m not wanted.”

“You’re wanted, Jason. Thank you for looking after Amy and Bridget this morning. Alfred says you’re welcome for dinner at the manor on Thursday.”

Jason walked away, but at the last second he said, “Can I still see them next week?”

“Of course,” Dick said.

It was probably a good thing that elevator doors couldn’t be slammed. Once Jason was safely on his way back to the ground floor, Tim let out a sigh of relief. “Sorry, Dick. I didn’t know he’d be here, I just let myself in. I didn’t mean to upset whatever arrangement you’ve got with him.”

Bridget looked fine too. He tickled a bare baby foot and she smiled at him as well. “Thank you for keeping your head,” he said to Tim. “Jason would never hurt you in front of the girls, but even so.”

Tim smiled wanly. “I’m just glad he didn’t cut my throat again.”

“It’s a good start,” Dick agreed. They hadn’t discussed it explicitly, but Jason knew that if he hurt Tim again, there’d be no more babysitting. He’d get that it applied to Steph as well. There was to be no hurting of successors on Dick’s watch. “He’s been cutting back on the Red Hood stuff too. Anyway. Why are you here? I thought you were coming over after school finished.”

“Parent-teacher interviews,” Tim said. “They let us out early. Cass told me you were planning to go to Lockhaven today, so I thought I’d come by.” 

_I didn’t expect you to have asked the Red Hood_ _to babysit_ , he didn’t have to say. Fair enough. “Sorry about that,” Dick said. “Is your dad going to your parent-teachers?”

“I’m supposed to meet him back at school at six.”

Dick made himself smile. It was tough when Tim talked about his dad. It wasn’t working, and they all knew it wasn’t working, including Tim. “Still time for us to hang out,” he said. “Spot me while I do some training? I think I need it right now. You can tell me about school.”

What ended up happening was that once they’d relocated to the bunker, Tim grilled him about the activities of the Gotham underworld instead, but that was more or less what Dick had expected. Tim was Robin through and through. Steph arrived at around four, and Dick started on helping her, at one point giving instructions while he rocked Amy back to sleep. Cass dropped by at five, and while Tim spent his last bit of free time helping Steph with more of the miscellaneous Bat-equipment, Dick went a few matches with her.

Cass pinned him in their fifth round, and Dick had to tap out not because he was beaten, but because of the other thing. That was the end of training for the day for him. He knew that there was nothing that would magically solve what had happened to him. He just wished that he could spar with his sister without worrying about panicking. So instead, he went to sit next to Steph again and help her with learning Bruce’s various contingency plans.

“I thought my math teacher set a lot of homework,” Steph mock-complained to him at one point, but she’d yet to fail to do any.

Dick was trying to calm himself back down, deep breaths and counting and all, but he managed to give his honest assessment of her progress anyhow. “You’re doing well,” he said. “Give it another two weeks like this and pass that situational awareness drill consistently, and Bruce’ll be taking you out on the streets.”

“Really?” Steph perked right up. 

“Really.”

“Tim told me it was _months_ before B let him go out.”

“Tim caught him at his most paranoid.”

“Because of the last Robin?”

“Jason. Yes.” Dick smiled at her, no matter how much it sucked to think on the months after Jason’s death. “He’s going to do his best to make sure you don’t get hurt out there, either, but we’ve run him through this concept of _overtraining_. We think he’s just about got it, when it applies to other people. Helps that you’ve been out on the streets as Spoiler, too.”

Steph looked back at the files she had been in the middle of evaluating. “He’s taking that into account?”

“‘Course. It’d be stupid not to. He does want you to get better, he’s just crap at compliments. You’re doing just fine, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“A bit,” she said, smiling. Dick was still learning her tells. Nevertheless, he thought that smile was a real one. “Thanks, Nightwing.”

He had to go back upstairs to heat up his dinner, plus he had some laundry he needed to run through the machine. Babies. They were laundry-generating machines in and of themselves. He left the girls in the bunker with Steph and Cass, who were more than responsible enough to look after the girls for an hour, since he’d be back downstairs to help with the night’s patrol anyway.

All the while he did his chores, his phone faced him accusingly from its place on the dining table. Babs’ message from earlier. He still hadn’t answered. He’d been trying to communicate with her in civilian life, he’d accepted her apology, but the ease that they used to have between them wasn’t there anymore. Nightwing and Oracle were working together fine. Dick and Barbara…not as much. They were improving, though, a little more every time they interacted.

Three drafts of a simple text later, he managed to send a message that read simply _doing fine :)_. A minute later, Babs’ response beeped through: _I’m glad_.

He didn’t respond to the second message.

Back downstairs, Bruce had finally arrived. No cape and cowl, yet, because he was too busy checking on his granddaughters. Sometimes you could even catch him smiling at them, especially if the girls were awake themselves, but that was a stealth exercise in and of itself. Tonight, he wasn’t smiling, just watching.

“No brooding over my daughters,” Dick said. “Save it for the Gotham skyline.”

“Dick,” Bruce greeted him. “Have you eaten?”

“Yep. Trained, too.”

Bruce’s eyes were fixed firmly on him, checking for any sign of a lie. “And you are doing well?”

“As well as I can be,” Dick said. “It sucked and today’s been rough. But she did agree to give up her parental rights. There’s that.” 

“We can do this through the courts,” Bruce said. “You don’t have to concede anything to her if you don’t want.”

“I don’t like the risk to our identities. She’d tell, just for spite.”

“We can handle that.”

“And I’d rather not. Amy and Bridget will never be forced to see their mother, which is all I wanted.”

“You do know Cass and Tim have four or five plans to break into Lockhaven and scare her into giving everything up.”

Dick smiled. He’d found the plans last week, and actually started crying over them. Even now they brought a lump to his throat. “I do know that.” They'd planned them out with Babs and Steph. At least one of the schemes had contemplated enlisting Jason to help. It was very touching. “But I’m serious, I don’t want anyone to touch her. I’ll settle for having her locked up and forgotten. It’s not worth the risk of breaking in.”

“It’s not that big a risk. Even if it was, you’re worth it,” Bruce said.

“Any risk is too big to be worth her. And better not let Jason hear you say that,” Dick said.

“Jason is also worth it. Tim, Cass. All of you. Short of murder…”

“Now you’re just getting sappy.”

Bruch _hmph_ ed. 

“It’s okay,” Dick said. “Your secret is safe with me.”

“Yes, well.” Bruce shook himself a little, and Dick could see him activate Bat-mode. “Robin and I have training to do, and then I’ll be going on patrol through the northern retail strips. Will you be following from here?”

“Naturally.” It wasn’t as good as as a real patrol, but it kept him involved. “I’ll walk Robin through the route as well. I think she’s almost ready to make her debut appearance in the new costume.”

“I agree.”

It was early in the morning by the time everyone had returned to their own homes, leaving Dick alone. Or ‘alone.’ He wasn’t, really. He had Amy and Bridget with him. Even if they couldn’t talk now, soon enough they’d learn. Soon enough he’d be chasing after a pair of toddlers, then driving little girls to school, then setting boundaries for teenagers.

“What say we call it a night?” he asked them as he laid them carefully in their cribs. “It’s been a busy day today, and we’ll have a busy day tomorrow too.”

He was looking forward to it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my goodness. It's done! Thank you everyone for reading this fic, and all your comments, kudos, bookmarks, whatever. It's been a hell of a ride. Looking forward to posting new stories in the not-terribly-distant future!

**Author's Note:**

> Can't lie, I am super nervous about posting this. I have quite a bit of this fic written in first draft form and will post weekly as I polish chapters up. Feedback is deeply appreciated. 
> 
> NEXT TIME:
> 
> Dick almost looked embarrassed. “So what brings you here, Timmy? Not that I’m not happy to see you, it’s just…” He smiled, but there was something absent in it.
> 
> “Christmas,” Tim said, mind working away at the problem. It was either a trivial problem or really, really bad if Dick was trying to put on a smile and not quite succeeding. Given that he hadn’t been out as Nightwing…Tim leaned to the 'deadly serious' theory.


End file.
